


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Also influenced by other authors, Altered Timelines, Altered character ages, Angst, Betrayal, Character Death, Chattel, Coercion, Conflicted Loyalties, Dark Bagginshield, Dragon Sickness, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), F/M, Family Feuds, Galadriel who actually does stuff, Hair Kink, I can't promise everyone is going to get a happy ending, I should say by me via the Dwarrow Scholar's resources because I fuck things up, Influenced by Sansûkh, Knitting, M/M, Mental Coercion, Mental Disintegration, Mildly Dubious Consent, Neo-Khuzdul by The Dwarrow Scholar, Non-Sexual Slavery, Not so mildly dubious consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Piercings, Racial misunderstandings, Rings of Power, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Situations, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some characters who were alive are dead, Some characters who were dead are alive, Some dialog and/or lines taken from Tolkien, Sorry Celebrimbor but it's true, Stubbornness, UST, Violence, braiding, rings of power SUCK, servitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 70
Words: 149,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU to both book and movie canon:  In the aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies, Thorin is King Under the Mountain, and Bilbo's sacrifice has achieved little.  The dwarves of Erebor are wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, but they can't eat gold, and they desperately need food and medicine.  </p><p>Proud Thranduil, still stung by the escape of Thorin's company and angered out of reason by Thorin's continued refusal to bargain, will not give aid for nothing.  If Thorin will not give gems, Thranduil demands a harsh forfeit: that a young dwarf of Durin's line must be given to him as chattel in lieu of the escaped prisoners.  The dwarf is to serve Thranduil's household for 77 years in exchange for what the dwarves require to survive.  </p><p>Gimli son of Glóin volunteers himself for this duty.  He is given to Legolas Thranduilion, an arrangement that pleases no one.  </p><p>As Legolas and Gimli struggle with one another, Sauron rises in the east.  He is all too ready take advantage of the prejudices that fester between the free peoples of Middle Earth, and seeks to find and reclaim the One Ring so he may put an end to a the newest unlikely threat to his power: the youthful heir of Elendil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immovable object will never yield to irresistable force-- and once again, the innocent suffer.

Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, reclined in his chair, as confident as if it were his throne.  Only those who knew him well would have perceived a slight stiffness in his bearing, a relic of his battle with Azog.  Those few present who did know Thorin were far more worried about something else: the dragon sickness, which raged in him unabated and could not be overcome.  

None could reach or sway Thorin, not even Gandalf, who had departed in disgust with Bilbo Baggins some days before to safeguard his return to the Shire.

Around and around the talks circled, always returning to a single point.  They might be standing around a rough-hewn table near Dale rather than separated by the battlement of the front gate and its guarding lake, but Thorin’s resolve had not changed.  He held his spine ramrod straight and stared daggers at the elvenking, Thranduil of Mirkwood.

“We will not surrender what is ours.”  Thorin’s hand lay upon the Arkenstone, and his eyes glinted with its cold fire.  “Neither will I deliver to you the jewels you demand.  I have said before: there is still an army before my gate, and I will barter nothing under threat of force.”

“Then starve, and your kin with you.”  Thranduil tilted his head, his narrow eyes calculating.  “Dáin has not brought enough to keep you through the winter.  The mountain will be at the mercy of any who wander past.”  He drew himself to his full height.  “Or perhaps you may be persuaded to part with something far less dear to dwarves than jewels or gold.”

A stir rose among the assembled company, but Thorin ignored the alarm of his counselors, silencing them with a sharp flick of his outstretched hand.

“Name your price….” His pause emphasized the contempt in his tones.  “...Elf.”

I will accept a young son of the line of Durin to serve me as chattel for seventy years and seven.  In exchange, I will provide a single year of food and medicine to your people.”  Thranduil sat back, a faint smile playing upon his lips.  

“Will you make war on Erebor if I refuse?”  Thorin had to shout to be heard over the babble of raised voices-- dwarves and men yammering in dismay.  

“I will not need to.  In a year this mountain will lie empty of the living, and any who wish it will walk in and take as much as they can carry.”  Thranduil rose.  “I have no more use for talk.  Choose.  I return to the wood before nightfall.”

Thorin hesitated, his eyes ranging across his companions, hazed with the lust the hoard fed inside him.  “We will starve then, and you--”

“No.”  A voice rang out, and a young dwarf stepped forward.  He wore an axe and armor, but his beard barely reached his collarbone, and his clubbed braid was short, poking stiffly out from under his iron helm.

“I am Gimli, son of  Glóin.  I am of Durin's line.  To save my people, I will  give myself in fulfillment of this bargain.”

“Gimli!”  His father yelped, and would have thrust him back, but the damage was done.  Thranduil inclined his head, staring disdain at Gimli.  He did not seem at all pleased to hear his bargain fulfilled.

“Agreed.”  He smiled faintly and turned his gaze to Thorin. "Once again, payment of your debt has been offered and accepted." His lip curled with displeasure as he gestured to his attendants.  “Have our people gather wine, water, flour, and such meat as we can spare.  Prepare it for shipment here.  We will collect your pledge five days hence at the edge of the wood by the east road, dwarf.  When you are in my keeping, the wagons will roll.”

His face twisting with rage, Thorin turned wrathful eyes on Gimli.  “I would have expected better from one of my own kin than from a stunted and honorless rat of the Shire." He paused, struggling to control himself, his mouth working in silence for a long moment before he calmed again, his face hardening and his voice turning icy cold.  "We will be better off without your sort in Erebor.  Do not ever show your face here again.”

“But Thorin.  My only son!”   Glóin begged, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Peace!”  Thorin roared.  “Lest I send you with him into exile.”  He stalked out in a swirl of fur and a whisper of jointed metal plates, leaving  Glóin to stare at Gimli in horror.

“Let him go,” Gimli spoke quietly.  “It is a small price to pay for what we must have.”  He laid his hand on his father’s shoulder.  “I am of age.  It was my choice to make.”  

“What have you done?”  Glóin moaned, and tore his beard.  “If only Gandalf were here.  Thranduil did not mean his words.  He meant to shame our king!  You have brought that shame down on Thorin’s shoulders in full measure by accepting the elf’s bargain without his leave.  He will never forgive your act, even if it saves us all.”

“I have done what I judge is right,”  Gimli said, curt.  “Now we can rebuild our kingdom, and we will not have to beg and steal to live, if we can find no work among the coal.”  Pride and sorrow gleamed in his dark eyes.  “Do not try to argue with him, my father.  He will hear no reason.”

“I regret the day I ever answered his call to Erebor,”  Glóin whispered.

“Say not so,”  Gimli urged.  “For it is not a lifetime in slavery, and one day I will walk free and hold my head high, knowing I saved Erebor and all my kin, regardless how the king would have it.”

His father clasped him close and wept as the assembled men and elves left the tent in the wake of their leaders, departing for Dale and parts beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli fulfills his pledge to Thranduil.

Gimli son of Glóin, lately of the Iron Hills and briefly of Erebor, gazed at the eaves of Mirkwood with loathing. Though he was still young, only 62 years of age, the braids of his beard short, this was the ending of his life-- at least as he knew it. 

The dwarves at his side shifted, uneasy. He could feel his father’s presence keenly, the older dwarf hovering helpless at his shoulder. Glóin’s eyes were red. He had spent his days in anguish, torn between stone-crushing rage and silent weeping, refusing to sleep since Gimli made his pledge. None of Gimli’s family rested well. Thranduil had guessed exactly how best to hurt the dwarves who had escaped his halls, showing them the corruption of their own king while at the same time stealing away one of their kin. 

Gimli suspected he would take his elders’ place in the dungeons so Thranduil need feel no sting of defeat in the memory of their escape. 

As for Thorin, the less said the better. The dwarves who had remained in Erebor rather than follow Dáin back to the Iron Hills endured a bitter split among their ranks, torn between those who honored Gimli’s choice and those who followed the king, regarding Gimli as a traitor, deserving of his exile.

No matter which side any dwarf took, Gimli was as lost to his kin now as they were to him. Stripped of his lineage and reduced to a chattel for the time of his bargain, he could not return to Erebor even if Thorin repented.

It might be noble to sacrifice oneself for the well-being of kin and kind, he knew, but that made it no easier to see elves appear amidst the trees, ready to collect him. They advanced into the grass with caution, pushing back their green hoods. The elves wore well-made brown leather mail and carried long, bright knives and swords. Most were dark, long black hair following them like gossamer shadows, but their leader was blond, and he stepped past the others, waiting to greet the dwarves when they drew near.

Archers stood aside, their bows already strung, with arrows nocked and trained upon the dwarves in case the meeting went awry.

Gimli swallowed hard, his mouth dry with tension. His father’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Gimli,” he rasped, sounding as if he would begin to weep despite the watching elves. This business was particularly cruel for his father. 

By the terms of dwarvish law, as soon as the elves claimed him, Gimli would cease to exist. He would be lost to the dwarves until he completed his voluntary servitude. It would be as if Glóin had no son, or as if his son were dead. Not only was he banished from Erebor, but Gimli would not be able to wear jewelry or arms bearing the sign of his house, he would not be regarded by any dwarf except if he spoke or acted in the name of his master, and he could not court or be wed, not even should he meet his One. He would have no right to give his surname or to claim his father, and he could not even offer his service to another out of courtesy. 

He had chosen this path because someone must. It was right for him to offer himself for the sake of his kin.

“Courage, my father.” Gimli lifted his chin, wanting to be strong, though he felt anything but brave. “I shall send word to our family as soon as the bargain is fulfilled.”

“See that you do. If he will let you send letters before then, please--” Glóin fell silent, choked with anguish.

“I will if I may, but do not look for them.” There were many among the dwarves who would not deliver a letter from Gimli even if he contrived to send it. 

Gimli spread his feet apart, his hands clenching on the haft of his axe. He glared at the elves as if setting himself for battle, and they tensed. But Gimli did not move to strike; instead, he tossed aside his weapon. His cousin Balin caught it.

“I remember you.” The lead elf stared daggers at Glóin. “And this must be the… goblin… whose picture you carried within your locket.” His voice was arch, crisp with distaste. 

Glóin did not answer the elf; instead, he cleared his throat and spat at him. His target stepped deftly aside so as not to be struck, jaw clenching. “That haughty arse is the king’s spawn,” Glóin muttered in Khuzdul, warning Gimli. 

Gimli sighed. No benefit was to be won from such defiance. If this encounter came to blows, his kinsmen might be hurt or slain. Best to finish swiftly.

The covenant had begun, and it could not be stopped. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Gimli spoke. “I, Gimli, have come to fulfill the bargain struck between Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and Thranduil, king of Greenwood the Great.” He stepped forward and offered his wrists for binding.

The blond elf who led the party looked down at him, his long, elegant face as haughty and severe as that of Thranduil himself. “Are you of the lineage of Durin?”

“I am, and I am just come of age.” Gimli lifted his chin to stare at the blond elf, defiant, as Balin handed one of the elf’s lieutenants a scroll detailing his birth and ancestry. “I offer myself willingly to pay the price that is demanded. I will serve the king of Eryn Lasgalen for seventy years and seven in exchange for food and medicine, supplies to be given to my people as they need for one year from this day.”

“You will be bound so you may not flee or fight.” Rude, the elf ignored his pledge of submission, as if Gimli's word had no value.

Gimli made no acknowledgment, remaining still as the elf arranged his hands behind his back bound his wrists rapidly with thin gray rope. He flexed his muscles to test the knots when it was done, but the rope did not yield.

The elf made a sign and wagons began to emerge from the wood. Drawn by sleek-coated ponies and laden with the promised goods, they trundled slowly toward Erebor.

“Farewell. I will do you credit,” Gimli promised his father in parting. He let the elves lead him under the eaves of the wood, the leafy branches closing around him like the walls of a trap.

He did not look back to see Glóin weep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil assigns Gimli a caretaker, who decrees he must be washed before he is fit to associate with civilized beings.

Two elves blindfolded Gimli and led him swiftly through the woods, one holding each arm. They moved at great speed and Gimli could not use his arms for balance, so he stumbled often over roots and stones that lay in his path. Whenever it happened, his captors jerked him upright and pressed forward again.

Accustomed though Gimli was to the darkness of cave and stone, the elves turned so often he could not get his bearings. He was relieved when the way grew smooth and broadened. Soon the party stopped and his eyes were uncovered, revealing a moss-lined track that led to tall gates of iron wrought in the form of tangled boughs. Lanterns hung from the lowermost branches, illuminating helmet-clad door wardens who pulled back their spears to admit the party.

Though the hall was set into the side of a hill, it seemed the forest flowed inside with them as they entered. Support posts were carved like trunks of great trees. Where he would have expected to find ribs supporting vaulted ceilings, the supports were fashioned in the form of branches. Bricks had been molded in elaborate patterns of frescoed leaves, and paintings of stags and carvings of flowering vines could be seen almost everywhere Gimli looked. Delicate glass lamps hung hither and yon in patterns so artful they would have seemed random if not for their efficiency. They illuminated the corridors brightly, flickering like stars in the frosty heavens of midwinter.

It might have seemed quite beautiful, if Gimli were a guest.

The elves steered him into a broad, deep chamber. There the lamps were not enough, and the ceiling faded into shadows. The hall was a veritable honeycomb of small levels attached to pillars and connected by stairs, extremely ill-planned in Gimli’s view. The light focused on a single dais at the far end of the floor, raised well above the heads of any who stood before it, approachable only by climbing several staggered staircases. The throne itself appeared to be carved from a single magnificent pillar of stone-drip, but there the majesty ended. Gimli judged the carver had not been able to decide whether to make the thing resemble a tree or a stag, so he had compromised between the two, settling on an unpleasant mixture of branch and antler.

Thranduil of Mirkwood lounged upon his throne. His long, elegant limbs and his slouched, splayed posture would have seemed ungainly on any other being, but he wore it as the epitome of studied and indifferent grace. His crown was no more prepossessing than his throne, and Gimli judged it had been designed by a nesting crow.

“We have dispatched our supplies to Erebor in return for their portion of the bargain.” The lead elf, who Glóin had named Thranduil’s son, stepped before the throne. He seemed untroubled by its elevation. Other elves jostled Gimli forward, then shoved him, attempting to propel him to his knees.

He had agreed to serve, not to grovel before a haughty elvish bastard who ransomed food and medicine with servitude. Gimli locked his knees.

It took six of the elves to force him down, but finally they managed it, one of them rapping him sharply behind the knees with a spear’s shaft while the others pushed, crumpling him.

He stayed where he was put, panting, glaring defiance at the king of the woodland elves.

Thranduil roused himself at length, gazing down at Gimli with distaste. “So they have truly sent their kin in exchange for goods. It is no more than I would have expected from the naugrim.”

For Thranduil to have demanded such a terrible price for supplies the dwarves needed to survive was no more than Gimli expected from the beardless ones, but he kept his peace, staring defiant pride at the king who now owned him.

“Let this creature’s care and training be entrusted to my son,” Thranduil shifted his gaze to the blond elf without changing his expression of dislike. “And may the taming of this one serve to tame him, as well.” He leveled his stare upon his son, cold as the north wind. Gimli’s heart sank. Could Thranduil not simply imprison him and have done--? Must Gimli serve the rudest elf it had ever been his or his father’s displeasure to meet?

The son of Thranduil did not flinch or protest, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. “As the king commands.” He made a graceful leg and gathered his companions with a nod. They hauled Gimli from his knees and pushed him through the hall with them, departing in a different direction than they had come. The narrow arch through which they passed led downward.

To the dungeons? Gimli gritted his teeth, vowing not to protest.

“Prepare a bath for the dwarf,” the elf told his comrades flatly. “It smells.”

“Yes, Legolas.” One darted ahead.

Shortly the group entered a chamber where water flowed from a carved stone fountain shaped like a woman with long waving hair, her hands cupped and overflowing. A sparkling pool lay beneath the drip, but there was no steam or warmth in the air. Of course the water would be cold. Gimli grimaced.

The elf who had preceded them waited, placing several items on the rim of the tub. Gimli inhaled, seeking the sharp tang of lye, but a variety of cloying perfumes overwhelmed the clean scent of soap. There was a bath-brush, rough-woven cotton cloths both small and large, a vessel for rinsing, and a fine-toothed wooden comb. He winced. That comb would jerk snarls in coarse hair and would not release them. Next the elf laid out a small tray, whose contents made Gimli’s jaw clench: a straight razor, shaving bowl, and brush.

“Remove your garments.” The blond elf, Legolas, commanded Gimli, taking the ropes from his wrists.

Slowly Gimli lifted his hands to his cloak, releasing the clasp. He did not like to strip under the sneering eyes of these haughty, slender, pale-skinned elves, with their elongated, near-hairless bodies. It was not done, that a dwarf should display his body before the eyes of strangers. They would see his clan marks, his badges of mastery, honor, and grief, even his genitals.

“Remove your clothes, or they will be removed for you.” The elf folded his arms, glowering down at Gimli with impatience.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli is washed. Will he be shaved, as well?

The dwarf hesitated, anger simmering in its dark eyes, threatening to explode into violence. Legolas remained still, but he was ready. He could have a knife in hand before the creature moved a hand’s breadth.

The dwarf dropped its cloak and began working at the buckle of its belt. Legolas judged it would take the thing until the next leaf-fall to remove all the filthy, reeking layers.

Nevertheless, they were coming off, so Legolas kept his temper and waited. Cloak revealed tabard, which in turn uncovered a tunic. Its removal revealed mail. Mail in turn revealed a travel-stained undershirt, reinforced in leather and padded at the shoulder. Endless belts, buckles, knives, and accouterments clattered on the floor. Then the dwarf’s chest was bare. It was corded with layers of thick muscle though the dwarf was still so young its hair hid little. The coarse strands from its head trailed down its back in a thick auburn braid. Its beard barely reached the base of its throat. Its shoulders were marred where patterns of lines had been drawn upon its skin in dark blue-black ink. They coiled in and out of one another like a nest of snakes.

It might be only sixty, but its chest was covered with a wiry thatch of dark red hair, beginning just below its throat and spreading at its breast, then narrowing to trail down into its breeches. A glint of metal drew Legolas’s eye; the thing wore a small steel bar with round tips, the length of the bar threaded through the flesh of its nipple. He recoiled, blinking. What a barbaric decoration!

The dwarf glowered at him and turned its back. Leather greaves fell away from its calves. It pulled off heavy steel-reinforced boots, hopping awkwardly as it tugged off two layers of socks. Then it unbuckled its cuisses, which covered padded trousers.

It dropped the breeches but hesitated without touching its filthy breechclout, and one of the guards snickered.

“It looks like a troll’s spawn, if only trolls were the size of wild pigs!”

“It is so hairy, perhaps it is a boar,” another answered. They spoke in Westron so the dwarf would understand.

“Stop!” Legolas snapped without thinking, and scowled at his companions. “Stay your tongues.”

The dwarf straightened, leaving its breechclout firmly in place.

“Remove it.”

The dwarf did not move.

“Remove it. It will be washed, and you will have another.”

“Leave me, and I will wash myself.”

“Your kind is treacherous. If we left you, you would make mischief.” Two of his comrades gathered the dwarf’s clothing and armor, vanishing with it. The others quietly began to remove their boots and leathers, preparing to wash the dwarf if it would not wash itself sufficiently.

“What mischief might I make, naked and unarmed?” That simmering wrath was back in the dark eyes again, but the dwarf held it leashed.

“There are jewels set in the fountain. You might think to steal them.” Or cut your own throat, now that the wagons bearing food and medicine are underway. Legolas did not speak his thought. “Wash yourself, or you will be washed,” he said instead.

He held the dwarf’s eyes, and it slowly reached for the breechclout, untucking the end that held it secure. The cloth unwound and fell to the floor. Legolas glimpsed more gleaming metal studs and bars beneath, but he did not drop his eyes to investigate, meeting the dwarf’s scowl full-on.

“Are you satisfied?”

“Not until you are clean.”

“The water is cold.”

Legolas raised a brow, eloquent of indifference. 

The dwarf ventured into the pool, complaining in a low growl, the words unintelligible. It moved gingerly, taking a cloth, and scrubbed various bits of its skin with grudging haste.

Legolas studied his new servant, curious. He had never before been able to observe a dwarf without all its concealing layers. This one was young, perhaps not as broad or as tall as some Legolas had seen, but it was covered in a thick, rippling layer of rock-solid muscle. Its torso was short, the waist only a couple of inches separating ribs and hips. Its belly had just a touch of roundness, the only softness anywhere on the powerful body. The thighs together were broader than Legolas’s waist. Its calf was as thick as Legolas’s thigh, its feet large and solid. No wonder it had been so difficult to force the dwarf to kneel!

The dwarf finished its half-hearted ablutions all too quickly, then began to climb out.

Legolas sighed and nodded to his companions. “Wash it properly, including its hair.”

The dwarf was nearly out of its depth in the chest-high center of the pool, so it insisted on remaining near the edge, keeping its face well above the water. Legolas watched, wondering again at the inky markings on its skin. They did not come off or smudge, not even when Andrath scrubbed fiercely at one of them. The dwarf spat a curse and pulled away.

“What do these marks mean?”

“That’s private!” the dwarf snapped, and would not say more. Other than that, it submitted to the scrubbing sullenly, merely sneezing a time or two and shaking its head, spraying water everywhere.

The dwarf allowed the elves to take the metal clasps from its hair and begin to soap the top, but when Giledhel reached for the shaving brush, the dwarf went mad. “No!” It bucked its helpers away almost without effort, and Andrath splashed into the water, emerging moments later in a swirl of wet hair and fury. Giledhel caught the dwarf in a headlock, his teeth bared, but was likewise thrown off before he could spread foam over the dwarf’s braided beard.

Legolas watched as two more elves joined the fray, amazed by the creature’s strength. It had tossed away his finest soldiers as though they were dried leaves! Despite the dwarf’s youth, two elves were needed to restrain each thick-corded arm. When they had the dwarf pinned between them, Andrath advanced, holding the razor ready.

A flood of guttural curses snarled forth from the dwarf as it struggled, whipping its head back and forth. The soaked tip of its plaited hair began to unravel, snapping sharply against the surface of the water as it jerked its head away from the blade. Andrath caught hold of one braided lock and prepared to sever it near the jaw. The dwarf continued thrashing, trying to avoid the blade.

“Do not cut its hair or its beard,” Legolas commanded quietly before Andrath could begin. The elves stilled and turned their gazes up at him, astonished and a little resentful. The dwarf had injured their pride by testing their strength so sorely; they meant to have vengeance.

“I will not have you slit the dwarf’s throat by accident—or by design—while attempting to shave it.” Legolas leveled a forbidding stare on each elf in turn.

The dwarf blinked soap out of its eyes, scowling painfully up at Legolas. Angry red patches marred its skin where the elves had restrained it; Legolas suspected the marks would turn to bruises before morning. He felt a pang of dismay in the failure of his stewardship. He should have stopped the shaving sooner instead of standing transfixed by the spectacle. This might be only a dwarf, but it was a living creature nonetheless, and it had been injured while in his care.

“Wash your beard and your hair thoroughly and rinse them. I will not have them cut from you if you keep them clean and well-combed,” Legolas told the dwarf. “Andrath, give it the soap.”

“My name is Gimli. I am not a boar or goblin.” It fixed Legolas with a dark, narrow stare. “I am a ‘he,’ not an ‘it.’” The dwarf snatched the proffered soap. Clad in nothing but clear water, droplets shimmering like jewels amidst the coarse, wiry curls that covered its chest, its hair bedraggled, half-soaped and coming undone, the dwarf nevertheless kept all the pride of a king, clothing itself-- himself-- in some inner dignity.

It took time to lather and rinse the dwarf’s thick mane of hair. It resisted help except in the rinsing, allowing the elves to pour water over the heavy, sodden strands as it lifted them.

When it was done the dwarf wrung its hair into a tail over his shoulder and climbed out, dripping, to stand scowling at the comb provided for its care. Its skin was ruddy pink and its nipples had crinkled taut, even the one that bore the little steel bar. It looked vibrant and vital, its skin pebbled strangely, standing up around each small hair.

“Elves must be bloodless, to like such cold baths,” the dwarf growled, accepting a towel and swathing its loins in haste. Not quickly enough to prevent Legolas from noticing the difference in its genitals. They had seemed longer and fuller before the dwarf went in the bath. Now Legolas could barely discern the wink of metal surrounded by fierce hair.

The dwarf’s muscles rippled and bunched, impressive cords under the pale skin. Legolas calculated the strength of the dwarf and wondered at its limits, and how much stronger it might become when it matured fully. 

“My father ordered new clothing prepared for you.” Legolas handed the dwarf a small pile, which it surveyed with distaste, shaking the garments out of their folds: shirt, tunic, and trousers, all made of light, well-woven fabric combining cotton and silk. It would cover closely without binding and resist soiling or wear. A breechclout was also provided, socks, and low-topped leather boots. They were much like Legolas’s own, but made with the dimensions of dwarven feet in mind. The tunic bore the crest of the royal house of Greenwood on the left breast: a tree of twining branches set between the antlers of a stag.

The dwarf ran its callused thumb over the crest, baring its teeth with dislike. Wearing an enemy’s crest was apparently preferable to remaining naked, though, since the dwarf donned the clothing without giving battle. It surveyed its limbs with dismay when it had finished. “This stuff is made of spider-silk and air. It will not last a week.” The dwarf began trying to tease tangles out of the ends of its unbound hair with the wooden comb.

“You may be surprised.” Legolas felt his hackles rise at the mention of spiders. There was no more despised creature in the woodland realm. “Come now. You will be given food and a place to sleep.” He considered binding the dwarf’s wrists again, but decided against it. It had showed no sign of violence unless it was first threatened. Let it learn it might earn good treatment—or punishment.

“A dungeon cell.”

“Until you have proved yourself trusty enough to wander at will.” Legolas let the doubt show in his voice; surely such a thing would never happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas tries to come to terms with his new responsibility, but he is dismayed by his father's indifference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling kind of low and discouraged about a couple of things-- For one thing, I read an analysis on Tumblr explaining how and why most people don't want to read "old-school"-style fics anymore, but that's the only sort I know how to write, and I am feeling every day of my age plus some more. 
> 
> And I sort of watched _Return of the King_ even though I knew better and ALL THE FEELS OMG.
> 
> I'm also really down about returning to work tomorrow, so instead of doing the day-job work I urgently needed to catch up this weekend, I've been working on this so I could post another little bit. 
> 
> I still have a decent amount of backlog, but inevitably I'll run out and these posts won't be able to come so close together. But I'm so down tonight I'm giving in to temptation just so I can see the hit count change and tell myself my day was worthwhile! ;-) 
> 
> Escape with me into the happy.... if it isn't too old-school for you.

The elf-lord, Legolas, took Gimli to the kitchens. The cooks looked at him as though he were some sort of insect, but he was given cured meat, a loaf of bread, and a flagon of wine. Then the elf escorted Gimli to a dungeon cell.

As Glóin had promised, the elves were not cruel to their prisoners. There was a bed with serviceable woolen blankets and a table where he could set his food and sit down in a chair to eat. There were several outfits of clothing and another pair of boots waiting in an alcove by a bricked wall that proved to be a chimney shaft, radiating enough heat to keep the cell snug and warm. There was even a braided rug on the floor. A pitcher of water and basin had also been provided so he might wash. Blasted elves! Could they not have brought him here for his bath instead of stripping him to the skin and nearly drowning him?

Gimli let his food wait as he tended his hair. If it was not combed while it was still wet, it would matt into snarls he’d never be able to untangle.

The comb was just as useless as he had feared, but it was made of wood, so he was able to break out every other tooth, leaving a ragged but serviceable instrument for grooming. When he had tamed his mane and braided it once more, he felt more like himself despite the strange clothing, which barely served to warm him, the thin weave far too light for one used to forge and furs. He was glad of the chimney’s heat.

Of his own clothing and armor, there was no sign. Gimli sighed. He had forged and assembled much of his mail with his own hands, but its loss could not be helped.

The cured meat was clearly of Laketown purchase: simple mutton, but it would do far better than roots and twigs such as the elves ate. Gimli devoured it all, discovering he was famished, and finished the loaf. The wine he treated with more care. It was a heady vintage from Dorwinion, strong and insidious, so he watered it well from his pitcher before drinking. He must try to keep his wits about him.

When push came to shove, the elf had not commanded him shorn. That was a surprise. From the moment he had seen the razor, Gimli had expected to lose his precious beard and hair—though he had resolved he would make the elves know they had fought a dwarf before he submitted to the humiliation of being shaved. He would have to satisfy the elf’s expectations for his grooming, lest that mercy be revoked. Of course, the elf might decide to shear him anyway. That would be just like the cursed leaf-eaters.

Gimli brooded, staring into his cup, and tried to decide whether his status as the special possession of Legolas was fortunate or not. Better one master than many, but the elf was mercurial, less predictable than some of his kin, able to shift from mockery to kindness and back again in the blinking of an eye. Gimli feared that boded ill for his future. It would be a hard task indeed to satisfy a master whose whims he could not foresee.

There was little hope, too, that Legolas did not share his father’s cruelty and innate hatred of Dwarven-kind, not after his insults at the wood’s edge. That he had stopped his kinsmen from speaking cruelly must only mean he intended to reserve the privilege for himself.

Gimli’s hair was beginning to dry in the warmth, little wisps frizzing up from his plaits. He had no oils to tend and tame it properly. He could only hope the curls would not annoy his new master so much he ordered Gimli shaved. Gimli ran his blunt finger around the rim of his cup. Seventy years and seven? It might as well be an age.

Draining the cup, he kicked off his unfamiliar boots and threw himself down on his narrow bed. If he could not sleep soon, he would finish the wine and let it send him dreaming.

*****

“The dwarf has been washed, clothed, fed, and placed in its cell.” Legolas made report to his father, who seemed not to have moved since the dwarf was taken from the throne room.

“Yet it was not shorn,” Andrath observed. Thranduil’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to his son.

Legolas sighed to himself. “I saw no need to kill the thing in an attempt to remove its hair. I believe it would have fought us to the death to preserve its beard.”

“It should have been humbled properly, not allowed to have its way.” Andrath spoke without passion, but Legolas knew from long experience that his companion was implacable.

“The creature’s beard may be used as a lever to obtain its cooperation.” Legolas struggled to keep his temper.

“I do not wish its cooperation.” Thranduil raised himself and stood at ease. “It is a nuisance, one that would be better gone.” He laid his slender hand upon his throne, stroking the delicate patterns in the stone.

 _Then why did you offer food in exchange for its freedom?_ Legolas stifled the words in his throat. 

“You would have had us cut its throat in the shaving. Its death is your will?” Legolas asked slowly. In his mind's eye, he saw his father promise an orc freedom, then strike off its head rather than honor his bargain.

Thranduil shrugged, his raiment rustling. “If it should die in our service, let that death come of the dwarf’s choosing. Should it refuse a command and die resisting the command’s enforcement, that will be choice enough.”

“The dwarves of Erebor may be moved to make war on us if their kinsman dies in our care.”

“Thorin Oakenshield cares not for the life of a dwarf. He cares only for riches. If I am wrong, then the dwarves of Erebor will die.”

“It will not be so easy as that.” In his mind’s eye, Legolas again saw the dwarf heaving Giledhel and Andrath away as if they weighed nothing. “The dwarves are clever and strong. We would lose many of our own kin in such a needless battle.”

Thranduil’s eyes glittered, expressionless. “The dwarves will not make war for long if they cannot eat. Let them offer us violence, and there will be no foodstuffs for them, neither from us nor from the men of Laketown and Dale.”

“They may make war later, when they are well-provisioned.” The words were in vain; Legolas knew he could not dissuade his father from his chosen course. He must wait and hope war did not come. Another more immediate thought troubled him: Andrath’s razor and his desire for vengeance. “In three days, I am scheduled to patrol the southern reaches. I will be away for a moon’s time. Who will oversee the dwarf while I am gone?”

Thranduil considered. “I will temporarily reassign the captaincy of your group to Andrath, so you may train your new possession. After that, you will resume leading the patrols.”

“And after that?” Legolas challenged.

Thranduil’s mouth moved then, stretching into a humorless smile. “Leave it to another caretaker or take it with you.”

“It may flee.”

“Then cut it down or leave it to the spiders, as its kin should have been left.” Thranduil ghosted from the room without a backward glance. 

Legolas did not bother to look to Andrath before departing to his own chambers. Let the other elf wonder what he would do, or let him ask. Legolas had a great deal of unpleasant work to do.

Would that Tauriel were here! She understood dwarves better than any elf he had ever known. Perhaps she could have reasoned with the creature, but his father had banished her. The last he knew, she planned to travel to the Grey Havens and depart Middle Earth forever.

How would she advise Legolas if she were here? He could not guess.

If Tauriel could not counsel him, he was left with no other source of guidance but the dwarf itself. “It is not an ‘it,’ it is a ‘he,’” Legolas muttered to himself, rueful. He could almost see Tauriel’s secretive smile approving the thought.

Though it galled him to be saddled with such a grave responsibility, Legolas knew he must not allow the dwarf to come to harm. If he did, too many of his own kin would suffer the consequences. He must win the dwarf’s respect and convince it to behave in such a manner that it-- he-- would not die.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli finds work to occupy him in the halls of Thranduil.

Legolas brooded through the long night and woke the next morning at dawn, unfolding himself from his couch and padding down to the dungeon level just as the guard shift changed. He stopped by the kitchens and ordered the cooks to prepare food for the dwarf: fresh, hot bread with butter, fruit preserves, a pot of honey, and rashers of bacon ordered especially from Laketown for the creature’s feeding. He looked at the tray, thoughtful, then added a wedge of cheese. When the food was steaming on its tray, he took a pitcher of water and trotted down the last stair to the dungeon level, where a guard nodded greeting and unlocked the door to let him inside.

The dwarf lay sleeping on his bed. He had tended his wild tangle of wet hair, and it now lay on the pillow in a tidy braid. Legolas frowned at the comb lying on the table, half its teeth broken out in a neat pattern, every other one remaining. The broken teeth lay in a careful pile. The flagon of wine Legolas had provided was quite empty, and all of last night’s food had been eaten.

The room was quite warm from the morning cook-fires, but the dwarf lay huddled under its blankets, still wearing all its clothing as though it were cold. Legolas made a mental note to get it-- him-- a warm cloak.

“It is morning. The sun is on the plain and birds are singing.” He had no idea of the proper way to rouse a dwarf from sleep. “I have brought food,” he tried again.

Gimli opened one bleary eye. “Is there coffee?”

“I do not know what that is.” Legolas gestured to the table. “Eat while the food is hot. Our day will be a busy one.”

The dwarf rose to obey, tearing open a loaf, smearing honey and butter over the bread, and shoveling food in with a display of ill-manners so dreadful they made Legolas swallow against his gorge. He watched in dismay as crumbs sprayed everywhere. Water trickled down the dwarf’s beard on both sides as it drank. It-- he-- would soon have to be washed all over again!

When a fragment of greasy bacon flew in his direction, threatening to stain his tunic, Legolas fled. He retreated into the corridor to wait until Gimli had finished. Nardan, the guard, shook his head in dismay.

“What will you do with it?”

“I will teach him to serve in some capacity.” Legolas shrugged, feeling helpless.

“Perhaps you can teach it better manners.”

“You ask the impossible, I fear.” Legolas glanced toward the cell, from which offensive sounds of smacking, chewing, and crunching emerged. “Not unlike the king. The dwarf will only be in your charge for a few weeks. Then he will go with me to patrol the southern marches.”

“You will not have enough time to instruct it in elvish manners,” Nardan shook his head. “Perhaps the spiders will be swifter teachers.”

“That is what I fear.” Legolas lifted his voice, switching to Westron. “Dwarf, do not tarry. There is much to do.”

“Keep your shirt on, elf.” Nevertheless, the dwarf appeared soon after, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Legolas winced but did not speak of it.

“The food was good. I would thank those who prepared it, since they could not see my enjoyment.”

“I will deliver your thanks.” Enjoyment? That was one word for it, Legolas supposed.

“What are your skills, dwarf?” He asked, steering their course toward the tailor, where a cloak might be altered to fit the dwarf’s height. Or perhaps one must be made to fit his broad shoulders. It remained to be seen.

Gimli shot him a suspicious glance from beneath lowered brows. “I have been trained as a fighter. My weapon of choice is the axe, and I know how to swing or throw many kinds. I can also wield a hammer, pike, shortbow, and short sword.”

“But what is your trade? What are your activities at leisure? I seek some task to which you may be set, one at which you will not be unskilled.”

“As a metalsmith in the armory I have some small skill. I cannot yet craft blades of folded steel, but I have learned to pour the metal in molds to craft plate and jointed plate, and to draw wire, then wind it and cut links. I have been taught to weave mail from them.” Gimli’s jaw set and he stared straight ahead. “Wood elves do not wear metal armor, but I can work leather. I know the ways of dyeing and embossing, of cutting and fastening the pieces together with rivets. I can press coins at the stamp.”

Legolas pictured Gimli the dwarf loose in a forge with dangerous tools uncountable near at hand. Not least troublesome would be the molten metal itself, fresh from the crucible. A leather-works would be little better, for the dwarf would be able to arm himself with clippers, cutters, pointed tools for fashioning and embossing, sharp awls and hammers for fixing rivets. There was no point in considering it, for the elves of Greenwood did not practice such crafts. Even their food was gathered or bought from outside the wood, including that they had sent to Gimli’s people.

“I fear we have no need of an armorer.” Legolas shook his head.

The dwarf scoffed as if he could read Legolas’s mind. “I can play the crumhorn and the drum. I sing the songs of my people. I doubt these skills are of value to elves.”

“Can you read and write?”

“I know the Cirth,” Gimli answered shortly. “But I am not a scribe like Ori, and I do not know the elvish characters.” He shook his head, glancing about as they walked. “That,” he said suddenly, pointing. “When I was yet too young to go to the forges, I learned fiber crafts from Dori, my father’s friend. Not all dwarves work metal. We must have clothes, too, and food.” They looked into a room where several elves sat working with their hands. Two carded wool in a slow-spinning drum while others spun and others dipped the fiber in pots of steaming pots of vegetable dye, then doused it in water and set it out to dry. Still others worked the spun threads, some upon looms, others knitting thin strands together in intricate patterns.

Legolas lifted his eyebrows, startled. “Well. Perhaps you may do little enough harm with sticks and string.”

Gimli gave him an unfriendly glare.

“I will summon Nardan to watch while you labor here.” Legolas led the dwarf into the room. “This is Gimli of Erebor, pledged to serve our king in return for aid to his kin. He says he has skill in this craft. When I have had him fitted for a cloak, he will return here. Suffer him to work the wool with you.”

The elves fell still, looking warily upon the newcomer in their midst.

“As you say, Legolas.” A lovely elf with long, dark hair bowed her head. “But be sure to send a guard. We would not have the dwarf disrupt our working.”

“Have a care you do not cause trouble to the weavers, or try to flee,” Legolas cautioned Gimli as they continued down the hall. “For if you do, your next task will not be so pleasant. We have fires to stoke and chimneys that require sweeping.”

“I have hewed wood and shoveled coal as a lad. The jobs are dull, but pose little hardship,” Gimli told him, voice sharp. “Yet I resent your words, elf. I have come here of my own choosing, and I mean to honor the bargain struck for my people.”

“Coal is too dirty to burn. We do not fell trees here, but use that which the wind lets fall. You would not be trusted with an axe in any case,” Legolas snapped, goaded by the dwarf’s arrogant tone. “Everyone knows dwarves cannot be trusted to keep their word.”

“And everyone knows elves are arrogant pricks who offer friendship only to those who bow down before them. All the while they hold ready a knife in a hidden hand, looking for a place to sink it!”

Legolas realized they were shouting, faced off and bristling as they stood in the main corridor, with dozens of curious ears listening. He reined in his temper.

“Be silent and let us continue to the tailors.” He took the dwarf’s arm and urged him on, meeting sullen resistance. At least Gimli moved, though he went at his own pace.

The frosty silence between them continued as Gimli was measured for a cloak, the elven tailors making no secret of their distaste as they were forced to touch him to measure the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his chest.

“He will need other clothing, too,” Legolas remembered the way the dwarf had spilled his drink, then wiped his lips on his sleeve. He would soon spoil his clothing if he continued thus. “Take his full measure and keep the numbers.”

Gimli huffed annoyance as he was turned and prodded, especially when the tailor reached between his thighs to measure the length of his legs for breeches. He made no complaint, however, other than submitting with ill-grace. When it was finished he followed Legolas out, dismissing the tailors with a sidelong glance just as haughtily as if they were underlings.

“You made no friends there,” Legolas pointed out, tart.

“I had no desire to.”

“Then hold your tongue when your seams are crooked, or if they pinch.”

“I am no elf so dainty I must wipe my arse with thistle-down and flax!”

“At least elves clean our hair and our bodies instead of leaving them matted and mired in filth like an orc!”

“You know nothing of dwarves!”

“And you know nothing of manners. Yours were so foul at breakfast, I could not look at you while you ate and keep my own food in my stomach.”

“I eat with full enjoyment to honor the preparer. It is you who knows nothing of manners. Elves sip and pick at food as if it is beneath them to eat. How then should the cook know he is valued?”

“If you weave in the same way you eat, the cloth you make will not be fit to serve a goblin.” They were shouting again already. Legolas drew a deep breath and tried to find peace within himself.

“Hold your tongue until you have seen what a dwarf can do.” Gimli’s fists were clenched so tightly his arms trembled.

“I very much doubt any dwarf can rival the works of elven hands.” Legolas laughed, cold. “But I will be glad to leave you so you may try.”

“And I will be glad to be rid of the sight of your sneering face!”

“Truly, dwarves are ungrateful.” Legolas stopped at the door where the weavers worked, glad to see Nardan was waiting as he had commanded. “But for me, you would be showing a shaved chin and cropped head to the world this day. You would have not eaten meat, and no new clothes would be provided for you. My father would have had you thrown in a cold stone cell away from the kitchens and left to rot, or better yet, he would have you taken out and fed to spiders, with your kin told escape and death were your own choosing!”

Legolas watched as Gimli bared his teeth in a snarl and let Nardan lead him away. He had not meant to say so much. After growing up son to Thranduil of the woodland realm, he had thought himself capable of showing a passionless response to any insult. Yet the dwarf had a knack for goading him to fury like no other being he had met in nearly 3,000 years of life.

Perhaps Gimli of Erebor had valuable lessons to teach him after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Gimli is settling in to his new life, there are still many challenges to overcome. Not least is the temptation to argue with the elves when they don't make sense.

Gimli found himself relaxing quite without expecting to after Nardan led him into the room where weavers and spinners labored. It smelled familiar and comforting. He could identify wet wool and lanolin, the tannic acid of oak leaves, vinegar, onions, and some unfamiliar tang, possibly a mordant used to set the dyes.

“I am to give you what you wish to use,” the elf-woman who had spoken earlier rose, setting aside her needlework. “What is your desire?”

_To be free. To return to Erebor._

Gimli set the cry of his heart aside and turned to skeins of wool that hung spun and dyed upon drying racks. There were none of the bold colors his own folk achieved using caustic metallic salts and chemicals; all were natural dyes, but some might suit.

“Two colors very different that nevertheless look well together,” he spoke gruffly. “Such as this and this, spun the same thickness, with needles sized to work them.” He reached to touch a rusty brown, then a subdued golden-green. From what he had seen within the room, colorwork was not practiced among the elves. They seemed rather to delight in fine laces, letting intricate stitches do all the work of patterning.

“That is easily arranged.” She showed no hostility as she guided his choice, and soon he had four skeins, which he held over his hands as the lady wound them in balls, her nimble fingers moving swiftly. “You may sit here,” she directed, and Nardan followed closely as she settled Gimli to work, putting his wool in a small basket and handing him wooden needles. They were straight and rather longer than he liked, and the wool was so soft it was almost slippery, but he could make them serve.

“Also, if I may, I need parchment, a quill, and ink.” It would be far easier to knit a pattern with it drawn before him.

She had the items brought, and a table upon which he could work, then left him. Gimli folded one bit of parchment and used it as an edge, constructing a grid upon the paper, then made his plan, drawing swiftly. He kept his work simple, constructing a border and a twined geometric knot, then setting up a repeat. Soon he had begun constructing a cap, for which he needed no further guidance. It would keep his ears warm in the chilly corridors of Thranduil’s realm.

The repetitive work soothed him, relaxing his anger, and his fingers soon remembered their old skill, flying nearly as fast as those of the elves nearby.

When he had finished the border and begun the pattern, the elves began to show curiosity. “That is neat work,” the maid who had helped him came near, looking with interest at his work. “I had not thought to try such a thing.”

“It takes a little time to master, but it is not too hard.” Gimli stretched his back. It was odd to realize he was at peace, a thing he had not ever imagined feeling within the woodland realm.

“Will you help us lift the steaming vat and drain it?” She asked. “The strength of the naugrim is spoken of in legend, and we would welcome your aid.”

“I will.” He ignored the unflattering term, leaving his work and helping to wrestle the heavy vat over on its side. The basin was deep and very wide, and the water inside was steaming hot. He wished he had its like to bathe in rather than an icy pool fed by a mountain spring.

The water flowed down its drain and Gimli eased the vat back down upon its table, accepting murmured thanks as he returned to his stitching.

The soft speech of the others lulled him, but eventually different voices began speaking.

“The dwarf has caused no trouble,” Nardan reported quietly. “It has worked steadily the day through, and was civil to those who spoke with it. It assisted readily with the steaming vats when asked.”

“Good.” That was the haughty elven prince, and Gimli felt his hard-won contentment evaporating like rime frost in bright sunlight. “Let us return him to his cell for the night. You can stand guard while I bring him meat.”

“The creatures are eager to eat flesh,” Nardan agreed, his voice rueful, the two of them drawing near.

Gimli set aside his work in haste, but it was too late. “What are you making?” The elven prince reached out to pick up his stitchery.

“A cap,” he muttered, sullen. It was a homely thing. He had not the proper tools to make it round without seaming, and it was simple compared to the lace of the elves.

“It has its own odd beauty.” The prince sounded astonished as he turned the work in his hands.

“Do not let it slip off the needles,” Gimli scowled. “I did not spend the day in making that only to see it unraveled by a careless hand.”

“You may leave it here and return to work in the morning.” The elf-maid who had helped Gimli stepped near. “None will tamper with it while you are away.” She gave Legolas a warning look, and the prince returned the hat to Gimli in haste, taking care not to lose stitches from the needles.

“I thank you, my lady.” Gimli bowed deeply to her. So much for the prince, who thought dwarves had no manners!

So Gimli’s days passed, with a guard fetching him out every morning to take him to join the weavers or to have him perform a variety of services for which he was well suited. 

He made every effort to keep himself tidy enough the elves would not be moved to wash him again, and it seemed he succeeded, though he often worked up a sweat moving heavy vats or casks as a favor to Dineth the weaver. It turned out she was also responsible for the care of clothing; even elves had to launder garments and bedding from time to time. Gimli obliged her, glad to carry wood or water and help dump the tubs. He even lent a hand washing, turning clothes with a long wooden paddle. Usually, though, he spent more time wringing and trimming new fleeces for rovings or knitting on his own. 

He saw Legolas at least once a day, often at mealtimes, when the elf would come to quiz him about what he had done or seen. It was the prince who advised him he might ask for more wash-water, or even for water that had been heated. Usually Gimli stayed with the weavers. On the rare days he and Legolas walked abroad together, he learned much of the woodland realm and of his host, though they would often end their time together arguing over some tedious subject on which their cultures differed. Gimli usually returned to his rooms those days in a foul temper, wishing he could wring the prince’s neck. Yet it was not all bad. Though the elf prince might argue loudly with Gimli, he always listened when it mattered. Gimli was usually given whatever he asked for, including a new comb, one better suited to his coarse hair. 

One day Legolas took Gimli to hear Thranduil holding audience with his retainers, trailing Nardan in case an extra guard was needed. Gimli was not sure why he was required there, but he kept silent. He even listened, managing to do no more than jerk his head with impatience every now and again. Perhaps the elf hoped his father would make a better impression when not dealing with dwarves, but Gimli still found Thranduil strange and cold.

“What did you think of your time today?” Legolas asked when they departed the throne room, and Gimli shrugged. 

“Your father is strange to me. He runs hot and cold. Mostly cold. I do not see why his people love him so.”

Legolas’s face closed. “I might say the same of Thorin Oakenshield.”

I’m sure retaking Erebor and with it the treasure of Thrór did not hurt,” Gimli answered, tart.

“As my father led elves here who wanted a return to simpler ways, giving them sanctuary and succor in much the same way Thorin has done for your people. Only without the dragon sickness.”

“Thorin is a hero to my people.” Gimli glowered at Legolas, who glared back at him. They hardly paid attention to where they were going, they focused so hard on their words, and Nardan had to guide Legolas when he would have turned wrongly. 

“Does a good king ransom his kinsmen?”

“Does a good king demand slaves in exchange for aid?”

They were shouting again, so absorbed in the argument they hardly noticed when they arrived at the cell.

“I will lock the dwarf in while you bring his food, my prince,” Nardan intervened, taking Gimli’s shoulder. 

Legolas stalked away in silence, and Nardan turned savagely on Gimli as the prince headed for the kitchen.

“Our prince feeds you with his own hands,” Nardan commented, his voice cold.

Gimli snarled, distrustful. “To make me dependent upon him.”

“To ensure you are well-treated. There are many among us who do not care for dwarves.” His icy tone told Gimli Nardan counted himself among them.

“Assuredly your precious prince and his father are foremost of those.”

“Yet it is not within them to mistreat a living creature.”

“But it is within them to enslave one so our children and elders need not starve and die. You are no better than goblins!”

“The prince had no hand in that, and you are hardly a slave such as goblins keep.” Nardan seized Gimli and shoved him against the door of his cell. “And Thranduil….” His eyes narrowed with fury. “Thranduil has reason. You should know he was in Doriath when your kin first showed their true treachery. Legolas is young, but I too served King Thingol and witnessed the greed and treachery of the dwarves who slew him for his jewel!” Nardan shoved his key into the lock and pushed the door open without warning. Gimli stumbled backward through it, nearly falling. “If dwarves will kill for greed, then should they not die for it? Before the battle Thorin Oakenshield had his chance to trade fairly. He refused, preferring war. That Thranduil should send your folk aid at so small a price is mercy, dwarf.” The door slammed shut between them.

Doriath and Thingol? The words were mere tales of legend to Gimli-- legend in which a haughty elvish king had agreed upon terms of trade and then reneged on the bargain, forcing dwarves to claim fair pay as best they might. 

Gimli was in no mood to make conversation when the prince brought his food, though the venison haunch was fresh-roasted. Legolas also brought bread and thick barley soup that smelled delicious.

Unfortunately the prince lingered when Gimli sat down to eat. He poured wine for them both and seated himself in a chair he carried in from the corridor.

Gimli set his cup aside, determined not to drink until after the elf left. “What do you want?” He knew he sounded surly, but could not bring himself to lighten his tone.

Legolas seemed to have forgotten their disagreement. “I am pleased with your progress. Have you everything you require for comfort?” The prince sipped his own wine, his eyes ranging around the small cell. “I had more blankets brought to you for nights when the chimneys are idle.”

“They are sufficient, thank you. I would have my clothing and armor back, and I wish to write to my people,” Gimli muttered. His stomach rumbled with eagerness to taste the soup; he had eaten only a piece of fruit for his noon meal. He tried a spoonful. “Other than that, I am not in need.” The soup tasted as good as it smelled. 

“What would you tell him?”

“That I am the servant of Legolas Thranduilion. That he has kept me warm and dry. That I do not go hungry. That I have not been beaten or made to work until I drop.” Gimli lifted the bowl to his mouth and drank, glaring at Legolas above its rim. When it was empty, he set it down again and burped. “That my things were taken and I was stripped and forced to wash in front of staring elves, but my master gave mercy and my beard was not cut.”

“I will have writing materials brought to you, and any such letter you pen will be taken to Dale and delivered to your father.” Legolas regarded him, his gray eyes unreadable.

“Thank you,” Gimli said quietly and returned his attention to his meal. Legolas ordered Nardan to bring the quill and parchment Gimli had requested, then went. When the materials arrived, a stub of candle came with them, and Nardan lit it. Gimli sat up until it had burned to nothing, writing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli completes his letter to his father and considers the terms of a proposal.

_  
Honored Glóin,_

_Well after dark on the day we parted I arrived at the hall of Thranduil, where I was given into possession of the king’s get, Legolas Thranduilion, the very elf who was so rude to us at the edge of the forest._

_I have not yet learned whether he will turn out to be a cruel taskmaster or a fair, but thus far I am unharmed. I have been well-fed and given meat. I have a warm cell and may leave it under guard. I am not to be worked to death yet, it seems. I spend my days with weavers and spinners, and am let to practice that pleasant craft. Though I was forced to strip bare before many mocking elves upon our arrival and scrubbed as though I were a beast, none have yet beaten me or used me truly ill._

_There were those who wished to cut off my beard, but the prince stopped them. He is shrewd. I think he wishes to use the threat of its loss to control me. He has taken my armor and clothed me after the fashion of his kind. You will not need to be told it is not to my liking, yet I am glad to be covered._

_Elves do not love Dwarves any more than we love them, yet my lot is easier than I had hoped. I will keep my part of the bargain, and I pray the elves keep theirs. Perhaps this indenture will not be so terrible as I feared, yet it seems a long age indeed must pass before I may see you again. Would that I were in the mountain, learning the forge, making armor! I am not let to continue in that craft, for the elves fear me and will not allow me near weapons or aught I might use as such._

_My candle is all but gone. I know not whether this letter will reach you, or whether any you send may reach me, but I crave word of all that happens within the mountain, and I will write to you when I may._

_May your beard grow ever longer,_

_Gimli_

In the morning Legolas accepted Gimli’s letter, which was not folded or sealed. The angular Cirth made no words he could read, save the signature and the direction upon the back.

He sighed, folding it over and creasing it, then tucking it away in a hidden pocket without comment. He would have it read before delivery, if he could, but he doubted he might find any who could—or would—translate the Khuzdul tongue.

Gimli sat down to break his fast. Legolas could observe no visible improvement to his manners. He waited, studying the dwarf. Sipping from his goblet, he otherwise remained perfectly still.

“My father suggested I take you on patrol when I return to the southern march. That date is now fixed; it is two days hence.” He spoke as soon as Gimli had finished, handing him a napkin with a faintly pained look upon his face. “We go to battle spiders, but I will not be able to permit you arms or armor. If you disobey my slightest order or attempt to flee, you will almost surely die.” He shifted in his chair, fixing Gimli with an intent stare. “You may choose to remain here, but if you do, my father decrees you will be placed under the care of Andrath, who has been removed from the patrol rotation for a time. He is the elf who desired to cut your beard. I think you would not enjoy his stewardship.”

Gimli raised his gaze to look upon the prince of the woodland realm. He drummed his fingers on the table, considering. “Escaping the goblins to be caught by wargs?” He asked, voice dry. He reached for his cup of wine, examining the blood-red fluid. He could smell the strong alcohol in it, heady and overpowering.

“You are my responsibility, and I will defend you as we journey unless you disobey my commands. If you do, you will be on your own.” Legolas tilted his head, studying Gimli’s expression.

Gimli reached to stroke his braided beard, remembering the anger in Andrath’s eyes. “Better the worm you know.” He took a gulp of wine, savoring its tartness on his tongue. It was not ale, but it would suffice. “I will go.”

“If you do, I will require your pledge to obey me as we travel, even if you do not see the sense in my orders.” The prince leaned forward, earnest. "You do not know the ways of the wood or of spiders. I may tell you to fling yourself backward from a height or to stand still while I shoot close around you. For my part, I vow I will not command you thus except to keep you from harm, neither in jest nor in wrath.”

Gimli swallowed the mouthful he held. “You ask for trust, yet you do not trust me.”

“I will be trusting you not to flee into the wood or to make any other foolish choice that might cost your life.” Legolas set aside his goblet and folded his arms. “You may have two days to decide whether you will undertake this pledge.”

Gimli met his gaze, wishing he had the power to read the elf’s mind. The elf had told him Thranduil would not care if he died on such an errand. How, then, could Legolas expect Gimli to give him such trust? The elf’s stern visage told him nothing. 

Nardan broke the growing tension by rapping sharply on the cell door.

“King Thranduil has sent a messenger. He would have you attend him immediately, my prince.”

“I shall return for your answer at dawn on the second day.” Legolas bowed slightly from the waist and went out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil entertains an unexpected visitor who is concerned for Gimli's well-being.

Legolas entered his father’s throne room silently, choosing a small corridor where he might remain unobserved for a moment while he took stock of the scene.

An old man stood before his father, cloaked in grey, leaning on a gnarled staff with a jewel in its top. Mithrandir had returned from his journey west much faster than Legolas would have expected. Thorin owed his life to the wizard's healing, but he had rejected Mithrandir's advice, both before and after the battle, so Legolas would not have been surprised if the wizard had waited until there was a new King under the Mountain before returning to Erebor. The _ithron_ was none too welcome in the Woodland Realm, either, thanks to his meddlesome ways and his insistence on consorting with dwarves. Legolas hesitated, but the old man’s keen eyes had already marked him, and his father would soon find him as well.

He stepped forth into the light and obeyed Thranduil’s languid beckon. Ascending the stair to the throne, he stood in symbolic solidarity with his father, who had left the wizard to stand upon a platform below.

“The affairs of my kingdom are none of your concern,” Thranduil intoned, his voice at its most dismissive. “I have provided aid to your precious dwarves, and that should content you.”

“At what price?” Mithrandir was furious, as angry as Legolas had ever seen a wizard. “The enslavement of a free dwarf?”

“Its service is one of indenture, not of slavery. It has been treated well enough.”

“You might clothe the dwarf in silks and house him in a gilded bower, then feed him the finest morsels a great king ever saw set upon his table, and it would still be wrong! You have no use for a dwarvish servant. This is a pettiness far beneath you, a fool’s vengeance!” Gandalf thumped his staff upon the floor, a glow beginning to wax inside the white gem.

“My son. Fetch the dwarf, so it may reassure the wizard in his concern.” Thranduil remained calm, but Legolas knew to move swiftly.

He flew through the corridors, jostling aside those he met, moving with such urgency Nardan’s eyes flew wide.

“Open the door. My father requires the dwarf.”

“Why such haste, my lord?”

Legolas snatched the key. “Mithrandir has come. He is angered by my father’s bargain.”

“Elbereth who lit the stars,” Nardan whispered. “Would Thranduil be stubborn enough to argue with a Maia?”

“He is.” Legolas hastened into the cell, where the dwarf set down his cup. He had nearly finished the wine, and sat his chair unsteadily. Legolas had no time to spare for exasperation.

“I had not meant to return and disturb you so soon, but the wizard Mithrandir has come to assure himself of your well-being. Come, so we may show him you are not treated ill.”

It took an age for the dwarf, ungainly with drunkenness and short of leg, to make the climb. Legolas followed, all but fluttering around the dwarf in his anxiety for haste. The climb did much to sober Gimli, though, and by the time Legolas trotted him in, he was much recovered.

“Tharkûn!” Gimli stepped forward. “Or should I say Gandalf? Your face is a welcome sight, wizard.”

The wizard looked at Gimli with astonishment, his bushy brows climbing so far they vanished under his hat. “I never thought to see a dwarf clad so,” he rumbled, clearing his throat with displeasure.

Gimli looked down at his elvish finery, wry. “Nor I. But it covers me, for all it is too thin. The prince says I am to have a good cloak, and he has given me blankets enough for an army.”

“And wine enough also, I see,” Gandalf tilted his head, studying Gimli’s flushed face.

“Truthfully I say, I have not been treated too much amiss.” Gimli shot a look askance at Legolas. “My pride is injured, and I may not come and go at will, but I have my beard.”

“That, at least, is good.” Gandalf approached, eyeing the dwarf up and down. “I have heard many rumors about your situation; they spurred me to return when I might have remained in the west. Are you here willingly?”

Gimli hesitated. “I was not forced to come. I chose to offer myself in fulfillment of the king’s bargain.”

“But for the term of your indenture, your will is not your own.” The wizard scowled.

Gimli shrugged. “That is so, but I have not been refused anything I asked aside from my armor and clothing.”

“He asked to write to his family.” Legolas dipped his hand into his pocket, aware of Thranduil’s watchful gaze overlooking them all. “I have his letter here.” He unfolded the parchment so the wizard could see. “I meant to leave it with a messenger in Esgaroth when I could, but it will be long before I travel that way. Perhaps you would care to carry it, if you mean to journey to the mountain.”

Gandalf scanned the parchment, sharp eyes flickering across the words for a long moment, suspicious, before they softened. The wizard could read Khuzdul, then. Gimli must have said nothing more ill than he promised, for Gandalf took the letter without comment and secreted it away.

“I will deliver it to Glóin myself.” He turned his gaze to Thranduil again, brows drawing down in a scowl. “I cannot countenance this course. You are as bad as Thorin in your determination to flirt with war and destruction for the sake of old grudges and the desire for gems. If you must keep your pride, let the dwarves ransom their kinsman back with the worth of the food in mithril or gold.”

“I will not. This choice is mine to make.” Thranduil’s voice was frosty, and he flicked his fingers at Legolas, directing him to withdraw with the dwarf. Legolas did, hesitating just out of sight, not wanting to miss the conversation. Gimli stood still at his side, silent and listening, though Legolas thought he could understand little of the Sindarin Thranduil used with Mithrandir. 

“Care well for the dwarf, if you will not release him. See that he comes to no harm.” Mithrandir’s voice might have cut steel, and he did not return to Sindarin. “Or you will answer to sterner powers than the dwarves of Erebor, Thranduil of Greenwood.”

“Will they then travel across the sea to discipline me? Will they unleash their wrath through you, sole and uncontestable arbiter in Middle Earth of the will of Manwë Súlimo, or so you would have us believe?” Scorn dripped from Thranduil’s words. “You are not a Vala. You are a counselor only, one who is long and far away from his master. You know as well as I: what I do is no grounds for such threat. Indeed, many elves have indentured their own kin through the long ages in redress for wrongs done. Take your warnings and go, if you have no more useful words to say.”

Legolas drew a long, slow breath and held it, awaiting the wizard’s response.

“I will stay this night and satisfy myself the dwarf is well-lodged. Then I will carry word to his father.” Mithrandir’s tone matched Thranduil’s for chill. “Have a care, Thranduil son of Oropher, lest pride and desire for petty vengeance consume you, as the dragon sickness has consumed Thorin Oakenshield.”

Legolas heard the tap of the wizard’s staff approaching, and nudged Gimli to set forth. The wizard joined them before they had gone far, his face like a thundercloud.

“You, Legolas Greenleaf. What think you of this course?” He asked abruptly.

Legolas glanced at the dwarf, who was listening so hard his ears might be in danger of falling off.

“The dwarf was given into my charge. I will see no harm comes to him.” He would say no more against his father.

Mithrandir stared at Legolas for a long moment in the way of the wizards, as if he were reading Legolas’s thought just as easily as he had read the dwarf’s letter. His brow furrowed.

“There is more at stake here than I can see.” He tapped a gnarled finger upon his lips. “Gimli, lately son of Glóin, would you sit and share a pipe with me? With your master’s leave, of course.”

“I have no complaint with that,” Legolas answered easily, answering for Gimli. “Let me show you to a room. I will call for wine and food.”

Soon they were seated on a lush couch arranged before a comfortable fire, the wizard having refused food and accepted wine. He spent a few moments lighting his pipe before offering Gimli a puff. The dwarf took the pipe eagerly. Soon he and the wizard were happily occupied blowing smoke rings while Legolas sipped his wine and pondered the day’s events.

The dwarf refused further strong drink, apparently wanting to keep his wits sharp for the evening, but he seemed to enjoy the pipe exceedingly. Legolas added that to his list of items to remember-- along with coffee, if it might be found in Laketown.

Mithrandir’s eyes flickered to him, as if perceiving his thought, and the old man’s face wrinkled in a broad smile. Legolas remained wary, knowing the wizard’s habit of putting more into a chance word or glance than it might seem.

After a cordial time together, the dwarf grew weary, his head nodding, and the wizard accompanied him and Legolas to his cell. The wizard assured himself nothing was amiss before allowing the dwarf to be taken inside. He gave Nardan a sharp look as he emerged.

“Care well for the dwarf,” he cautioned. “Legolas, walk with me.”

Of course the interview was not over. Legolas firmed his jaw and fell in at Mithrandir’s side.

“What do you think of your dwarvish charge?”

“I would be glad not to bear the responsibility for him.” Legolas did not try to dissemble. “He is a dwarf, and he is crude and dirty. His manners with food are sickening. He is hot-tempered and rude, his ways uncouth. I believe he will run at the first opportunity, and I will be forced to pursue him, lest he be lost in the wood and devoured by spiders.”

“I do not think he will run, especially if he is not ill-treated, and he seems not to be. That is a credit to you. He is here by choice, though that choice should not have been forced upon him. His honor is strong. He will fulfill his pledge.” The wizard shook his head, sober. “I ask you to be kind to him, Thranduilion, though your father would not have it so.”

“Why?” Legolas ran his hand over the carved newel of the stair as they passed.

“Your two peoples cling to hate and mistrust for centuries over old wrongs when these memories should be let pass. If so, there might be friendship and trade between you. Both races would benefit. But neither side will forget.” Mithrandir sighed. 

“Yet the elves were not at fault in those wrongs.”

“Nor were they entirely blameless.” Mithrandir set his hand upon the latch of his door. “As I have said to your father many times before, the free peoples of Middle Earth have far too terrible a common enemy to make war among themselves.” He rubbed his chin in thought, but his eyes were sharp and grave. “The White Council has driven the Necromancer from Dol Guldur, yet his servants linger in the mountains and the wood. You know as well as any: the spiders do not dwindle, no matter how many are slain, and orcs swarm so thickly the mountains between here and Rivendell have become all but impassable.” He shook his head. “The Necromancer gave way too easily. It is a feint and a cover for greater evil. Though Saruman scoffs at my fears, I believe Sauron is gathering his power for a new onslaught.” For a moment he looked weary, very much the old man he seemed.

“When he rises anew, you should be glad to have an ally at your side rather than an enemy at your back. The dwarves of Erebor will face the brunt of the onslaught in the north, I fear. Would you have your shield shatter, or would you rather it hold firm? In his pride and wrath, your father would have no shield at all.” He laid his hand upon Legolas’s shoulder. “Be good to the dwarf even if you cannot bring yourself to befriend him, Legolas, for my sake and the sake of all who follow the light.”

“I will be as kind as I may.” Legolas answered readily. “I do not make a habit of cruelty, not even to orcs. But I do not think I could ever befriend such a disgusting creature.” He grimaced.

“Do as you will, then. None can command friendship to take root where friendship will not grow. But for all his bluster and his difference from you, the dwarf is not a bad sort, and you should not judge him yet. His letter spoke justly. See to it you are just, also.” Mithrandir went in and shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ithron_ : Istari, wizard


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli accompanies Legolas on patrol and endures the many perils of hunting spiders in the southern marches of Mirkwood.

Mithrandir departed at dawn, leaving Thranduil in a foul temper. Legolas avoided his father as much as he could, busying himself with organizing his patrol. His troops required little, and could be relied on to bring such food and bedding as they desired, but for Gimli he must take extra thought. The dwarf’s new cloak was finished, a rich, warm thing, lined with fur from wolf pelts harvested by the Lake-men. It would not frost or freeze from his breath even in the most bitter weather.

Legolas decided to travel overnight to Laketown, where he sought a pipe and weed for the dwarf, as well as coffee. It was a rare commodity, he learned, a thing from far south that would cost him much gold. He minded Gandalf’s words, though, and laid in a supply, along with the small and complicated engine the man insisted he must have to brew it. He bought warm bedding, too, a pack to stow the dwarf’s belongings in, flint and tinder, and such small sewing things as the dwarf might need to mend clothing on the road—or even flesh, at need. After great deliberation, he provided a small folding knife. It would do for paring fingernails or gutting rabbits. The dwarf would need it, and he could not use it for much harm.

The final provisions were readied just in time. When morning dawned on the day his patrol was scheduled to begin, Legolas returned to his father's hall and made arrangements to leave. He directed his company to assemble, then went to check what had happened to the dwarf while he was gone. He learned Gimli had passed the time of Legolas’s brief absence quietly pursuing his needlework, making warm clothing for himself.

“He is strange but skilled,” Dineth the weaver told him. “He has fashioned himself a hat and scarf of green and gold, and gloves to match, with caps on the end rather than fingers so they will leave him dexterous at need. He has showed me the way of his weaving, though I have yet to master it.” Her eyes kindled, and she would have gone on to describe at length the way Gimli held his thread, working it with both hands at once, had Legolas the patience or time to listen.

“He has caused no trouble. Yet,” Nardan confirmed, grudging. 

Legolas nodded and went into the cell, carrying the dwarf’s breakfast. He found Gimli alert and waiting, sitting on the edge of his bed with his new-made woolen things on his lap.

“I have come for your answer.” Legolas set the food on the table and stood back as the dwarf settled himself to eat.

“I will go. I pledge to follow your commands.” The dwarf sounded offhand, speaking through a mouthful of bread and honey. Legolas set aside a flicker of irritation with his casual manner. 

“Regardless how strange they may seem,” Legolas insisted, and the dwarf gave him an annoyed glare.

“My word is all I have. If you will not take it, then leave me to Andrath.”

Had Gandalf told the dwarf something to make him more tractable? Perhaps that Legolas would not dare leave him to Andrath, lest he be ill-treated? Legolas eyed Gimli with suspicion, but the dwarf merely continued to eat.

“I have brought you a pack with the items and provisions you will need.” Legolas did not speak of the pipeweed or the coffee. Let the dwarf discover them when he would and thank Legolas or not, as he chose. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” The dwarf’s eyes went wide when he saw the rich cloak. “That is well-made. I am glad to have it.” He shouldered it on and passed the straps of his pack through their vents, arranging the load. “It is light. Dwarves would laugh to call this a burden. Is there no water to carry?”

“We will find our water in the wood.” Legolas led him through the winding halls to the gate. “You will be blindfold as we leave the hall and as we return, though I will give you leave to pass through the wood unbound when our path joins the road.”

The dwarf huffed annoyance, but let his eyes be bound. Legolas led him forth, taking care he did not stumble.

When he unbound the dwarf’s eyes, Gimli blinked in the darkness, but quickly settled in, able to follow the light-footed elves well on the ground. Things did not go as smoothly when they would have taken to the trees.

“I cannot climb like a squirrel,” Gimli protested. “Not even in these thin boots. I will stay on the ground. You must give me some signal so I can follow.”

“You cannot remain alone upon the ground.” Legolas singled out several of his company to take to the treetops, and others to stay below with him and Gimli. “We have far to travel yet today. The spiders do not come so close to our halls.”

They pressed on, making slow time because of the dwarf. Legolas might have chafed against the delay but for Gandalf’s words: no matter how many spiders they killed, more always replaced them so swiftly it seemed none had been slain. Their patrol would make little difference in the long run. 

Perhaps he should put the dwarf’s pledge to a test, to temper him for perils to come. The wood was darkening, and they were no longer upon safe ground.

As he thought it, he glanced aside to seek the dwarf, who stumped along stubbornly, wearing his hat and gloves. They went oddly well with his fur-lined cloak. A flicker of motion in the woods beyond caught Legolas’s eye, and what had been merely an idea became all too real.

“Stand, dwarf!” Legolas barked. “Do not move.” His hands clasped his bow. He strung it and an arrow flew before the last word left his mouth. The dwarf froze, blinking at him, his eyes wide.

The dwarf had flinched a little when Legolas shot, but the arrow was already past him before it might have mattered. It struck its target with a wet thunk. The spider squealed, rolling up to shield its glittering eyes. Then the others behind it broke over the party like a wave, and Legolas continued to shoot, darting about as he needed to find his targets. Arrow after arrow found its mark while the dwarf stood his ground. If Legolas was any judge, he never breathed after the first shot.

Then the vermin were down, chittering and dying on the mossy ground. Legolas scanned the treetops. It had happened so fast half his squad were still descending to help, some rappelling down the very spider silk, their oiled gloves protecting their hands from the sticky fiber.

“You may move now. You did well.” Legolas released the dwarf from his command, then stepped past to inspect his kills and retrieve his arrows.

“If I had my axe, I could kill them myself!” Gimli snarled, kicking a dead spider, then wincing as its carapace resisted his unaccustomed soft boot.

“Your kinsmen did not fare well against these.” Legolas tugged free an arrow and inspected the fletching. He wiped it clean and replaced it in his quiver.

“They were bewitched by the confusion of the wood and worn with starvation and long travel.” He hesitated. “At first I thought you meant to shoot me right between the eyes.” Gimli’s voice was gruff. “Then I thought you might without meaning to. You shoot well enough I will not think so again.”

“Is that how dwarves give their thanks?” Legolas kept his voice light.

“Aye.” Gimli squared himself, no true malice under his grumbling tone. “And it is how we give compliments, as well.” He went and seized one of Legolas’s arrows, then extracted it from the spider, holding it quite professionally to protect the fletching and the head. He tossed it at the elf’s feet and went to retrieve another. Legolas took it and followed.

They found several nests of spiders that day, but the first was the largest. In each contest, the dwarf did as Legolas bade, though he grumbled afterward because he was not allowed to fight. Inevitably he went about the bodies of the slain, ensuring none lived as though it were his business to double-check the elves' accuracy.

The dwarf kindled their fire that night and dug into his pack to find his rations. “That is coffee I smell!” he announced suddenly. He drew out the wrapped bundle, pressing it to his face and inhaling deeply before weighing it in his hands. “How much did it cost you, elf?”

Legolas flipped his fingertips lightly at the dwarf, dismissing the question as unimportant.

“The sellers will swindle you if they can,” Gimli muttered. “So have a care next time. You need to know what it should cost, and I can teach you how to tell if it is fresh. But I cannot brew it properly over a fire!”

“In your pack you will find an engine that goes with it. The man said you need only add boiling water.”

Gimli’s eyes brightened. “Then I will brew some in the morning, and you can drink it with me, elf.”

“If it tastes as it smells, I would prefer water,” Legolas told him honestly. The ground beans were pungent enough to make his eyes run.

“Aye, I can see that. No doubt elves would only take theirs well-weakened, with more cream and sugar than coffee.” The dwarf packed the coffee away tenderly and drew out his ration of cram. “It will make living off this stuff easier, at any rate.” He bit off a corner and chewed. “My thanks, elf.”

“You are welcome to it.” Legolas bit into an apple. Perhaps the dwarf had some manners after all.

The elves settled in to rest, setting sentries to guard through the night. After Legolas took his turn, he returned to camp and checked on the dwarf, who lay sleeping, curled close to the fire and huddled inside his fur-lined cloak. He lay so close to the embers Legolas feared his clothing would kindle.

Legolas laid several thick branches on the edge of the fire farthest from Gimli, building the flames up again so they might warm his charge. Then he sat down next to the dwarf with his bow and his knives close at hand.

The dwarf fidgeted in his sleep, making the elves titter as he rolled up on his side against Legolas. Unable to go farther, he threw one thick arm over Legolas’s thighs and settled there. Legolas lifted his eyes to the stars as if imploring their aid, and a ripple of laughter ran through the group.

“Perhaps we should give the two of you privacy,” Giledhel teased Legolas in a low voice.

“Winter comes. He is a mortal, and he is cold,” Legolas answered. “Anyway, he does no harm. Let him be.” He could not have said why he defended the dwarf, or why he did not push Gimli away. Perhaps for the sake of Mithrandir.

Giledhel raised one perfect brow at his prince, but he subsided, leaning against the broad bole of a tree and settling himself to rest. “He slows us, and it is a hardship to defend him on the ground when the spiders come.”

“Do you suggest I should arm him, or perhaps leave him undefended?” Legolas saw Gimli’s hood had fallen, so he lifted it again, tucking it snug at the dwarf’s shoulder.

“You grow fond of the creature, like a pet.”

“No,” Legolas denied. “I was charged to care well for him by none less than Mithrandir. I would not be found faithless.”

“Andrath says your father would not care if the dwarf fell.”

“Then he should not have given Gimli into my keeping,” Legolas flared. “Do not lecture me on my father’s whims. I have not lived long years without learning when to follow my own mind.”

“As you will.” Giledhel tilted his head back, serene.

The spiders left them alone that night, but as they moved farther south, the nests grew larger and the attacks became more frequent and dangerous as the numbers of the vermin increased. The dwarf kept up with the party well as long as they stayed on the ground. He learned to bait the spiders, drawing them out so Legolas might shoot more easily. If he could have armed the dwarf, Legolas would have left him on the ground as a lure while the party took to the treetops to pick the filthy things off from above, but he dared not.

The forest grew less wholesome, too, as they journeyed past the East Bight: trees grew twisted and gnarled, with deadfall branches clustered about their roots. Charnel scents rose from slimy mud, and oily-looking mushrooms poked their pale and bulbous fingers from the mould. The sky could be glimpsed between dying trees, but it roiled with clouds. No sun or star could be seen.

Finally they came to the southernmost end of their route, no more than twenty furlongs from Dol Guldur, where a long rocky hill pushed up through the forest loam and jutted into the sky with nothing more than twisted scrub and lichen growing on it. Legolas looked aside to the dwarf. He had learned the others would not go out of their way to protect Gimli. He recognized his father’s orders in that, so he kept Gimli always by his side and saw to the dwarf’s defense and care himself.

“I would climb to the top of the ridge and scout the tower of Dol Guldur from afar,” Legolas told the dwarf. “It is no sight for the faint of heart.”

“I will come too,” Gimli said stubbornly. His leather boots had worn thin at the soles though they were but halfway through the march. Legolas feared the dwarf's feet would be bare by the time they returned to the palace. Climbing would do the boots no good, but he could not risk leaving Gimli below.

“Come, then.” Legolas led the way, choosing a path the dwarf might follow.

They climbed, Gimli scrambling for purchase when the path grew steep, ducking beneath noisome webs and half-rotted branches. The sky was gray, covered with low, scudding clouds, and cold rain peppered down in gusts. Legolas missed the canopy at once when they passed from below it, blinking against the bitter rain. The dwarf hunched under both hood and hat, scowling, but did not lag behind.

At last they stood upon the summit, gazing across the valley to the ruined tower. A tall, angular bridge still spanned the gorge next to the ruin, and Gimli squinted at it with interest. “That was built by dwarves more than an age ago, or I am no judge.”

“Both our races assisted in its building,” Legolas agreed, studying the towers intently. He could see no sign of motion, but there were tracks all over the ground. “The ground about the tower is covered in orc-prints and the marks of trolls, and someone has cleared the many stairs since the White Council set siege to the Necromancer there.”

Gimli cleared his throat and spat. “There are so many webs strung across the vale that no rain may fall upon the forest floor beneath.”

“Perhaps my father will send troops to rout the orcs and drive them back to the mountains.” Legolas frowned, a shadow falling over his heart, making the fine hair stand up on his neck. A shiver sang along his veins that had little to do with the raw rain. “Let us go back down at once, before we are spotted.”

They went down much faster than they had climbed, but when they reached the ground again there was no sign of their group, only a scuffling of tracks. "The ground is soaked with blood," Legolas whispered, drawing his knives. "The marks in the mould show a body has been dragged from each stain. Look at the ruffled leaves, where the heels have disturbed stick and stone." 

The wood had fallen silent, and the very trees and stones seemed to shiver, as if they had seen horrors they would not tell.

“They were caught unawares,” Legolas whispered, his fists clenching on the hilts of his knives. “Taken without sound, before they could resist!”

“Some power greater than orcs is in that tower, then.” Gimli shuffled his feet, turning up a black orc arrow that had driven into the mould. “I miss my armor as never before, elf.” He shivered. “Some fell thing has been here. I can feel it.”

The dwarf was right. Legolas had sensed such fear in the woods near the ruined keep before, but never so strongly. It could be only one thing.

"I think you are right." Legolas looked at the dwarf long and hard. He drew one of his long, slender knives, flipping it in his hand so its hilt extended toward Gimli.

“Take this.”

The dwarf considered the offer and shook his head. “No, thank you. I will do better with a club.” He reached to the ground, where a splintered beech had fallen as though cleaved by lightning, its pale wood glimmering in the gloom. He set his foot on a shattered branch and wrenched away a thick length with a solid knot at its tip, hefting it in his palm. “When we stop to rest, you can lend me the knife and I will smooth myself a handle.”

Legolas nodded, torn. If he were alone, he would go directly to the tower to see if any of his company lived. Such a choice would likely be suicide. He could not indulge his wish, for he had a duty to protect the dwarf, and he must also warn his father of the raid.

No. He could not risk the keep. They were sure to be dreadfully outnumbered, and the dwarf had no true weapon and no armor. Legolas scowled. He might run home through the treetops in no more than ten days, but with Gimli at his side, he could not leave the ground. Walking the paths of the wood, the count would become fifteen days or even twenty. Even if he were alone, ten days hence were ten too many. By the time he might return with elves, there would be little chance any of his companions survived.

“Which way will you go?” Gimli watched him with apparent calm.

“I do not think we two can hope to seek my kin and live to tell the tale.” The words tasted bitter in Legolas’s mouth. “The longer we stay here, the greater the chance our enemies will return and we, too, will be taken. I must warn my father, or more elves will die.”

“Then let us go. I will walk or run as long as you, if not longer!”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli try to evade pursuit as they flee back to the halls of the elvenking. Warning: you will find descriptions of battle, violence, and some gore in this section.
> 
> Welcome new readers! I'm very flattered and pleased by iamjustalways's lovely recommendation and determamfidd's kind reblogging and endorsement. I'm glad to have you all here!

Legolas set out northward, keeping the dwarf before him and trying to look in every direction at once. He had brought his best elves upon this patrol. They should not have been taken so easily.

His eyes returned to his companion again and again as Gimli picked his way through the forest litter, responding quickly to the light touches of Legolas’s hand that directed him where to turn whenever the way was not clear. They had barely been upon the road for an hour, but already their presence had been marked.

Legolas raised his bow and shot a spider without slowing. “We are followed,” he muttered. “We will have to stand and fight. I hope it is no worse than spiders that have found our trail.”

Gimli saved his breath for running. In truth, he ran much more steadily and faster than Legolas had expected.

“There is a fortification nearby: a ravine with worked stone on the inner side. The guard tower it once circled has collapsed, but there are tunnels below, and alcoves where we may shelter and hold off our foes.” Legolas leaped over a log, and the dwarf scrambled under it without breaking stride. “We should reach it before dark.” He did not say more; it would not do to frighten the dwarf. The presence he had sensed must be one of the nine. He could think of nothing else that might have taken his companions so swiftly. If it pursued, their peril would grow far worse after nightfall, especially for the dwarf, who would likely fall under the wraith’s fear-spell.

They scrambled into the ravine as the last of daylight faded, splashing through icy flowing water that reached to Gimli’s knees. The dwarf had begun to falter in his stride, and Legolas suspected his boots had failed. He came on stubbornly though, making no complaint.

“Here is a covert,” Legolas pushed aside a shield of briars, peering inside. There were no spiders within, but that was all that might be said for it. He was nearly out of arrows from shooting the insects that pursued them. He bent his head and ducked inside, drawing the dwarf after him.

They could kindle fire. The light and smoke would draw spiders, but it might deter the wraith, if it pursued.

Gimli leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, and Legolas lifted one of the dwarf’s feet to inspect it.

As he had feared, the boot was in shreds, and the other was no better. Gimli’s feet were cut and bloody.

Legolas gritted his teeth. “You cannot go on like this.”

“I told you these clothes would not last the week!” The dwarf rallied bravely. “But I can go on, and I will.”

“Can you fit your feet inside my boots? I run far more lightly than you.” Legolas drew off his footwear. He cleaned Gimli’s bleeding sole as best he could, then tried the boot. It would not go on. 

Legolas replaced his boot on his own foot, then drew off his cloak and cut it into strips with his knife, binding them about the dwarf’s feet.

“I will repay this kindness.” The dwarf alerted suddenly, staring out into the night. “I can hear spiders chittering. They draw near, Legolas. They will find us shortly.”

“They may be the least of our worries.” Legolas glanced about, but there was no dry wood to kindle. He glanced up to the low ceiling, where tree roots had pierced the brickwork, writhing and tangling. The tunnel drew air, and it rushed past them with a hollow moan.

“If we pull down the capstone, the archway will fall and block the path behind us.” Gimli faced up the tunnel, sniffing at the air. “This tunnel opens elsewhere. We can follow it and make our escape.”

Legolas followed the dwarf’s gaze to the capstone, which had loosened and heaved as the roots pushed it out of true.

“Stand back,” Gimli grunted, and heaved his club aloft. Before Legolas could demur he leaped, striking the unstable stone. Earth sifted down, and he swore, then struck again.

This time the thing moved. It bound on a root, but the ceiling began to groan. Gimli backed away in haste just as the root tore loose and the roof fell, bringing a cascade of loose earth, stones, and masonry with it.

Dust choked the air, seeming not to trouble the dwarf. “That will thwart the spiders.” Gimli looked at Legolas steadily, apparently able to see well enough in the dark. “We should go.”

“Yes.” Legolas followed him along the corridor, which soon began to slope downward at an alarming tilt.

When the cave-in was well behind them, Gimli gave him a shrewd glance. “Tell me true, elf. Now that we are free of the least of our worries, what, then, is the most of them?”

“I believe my people were taken by a wraith, a servant to the Necromancer and a great captain among his soldiers.” Legolas confessed, reluctant. “I can think of no other creature that might have taken them so easily. It may grow more powerful by night, weaving a net of fear to entrap the unwary. It is the dead shade of a king of men.”

“A ghost cannot hurt us, surely.” Gimli tried to hearten himself, but his half-hearted jest fell flat as they remembered their missing companions.

“This one can wield a sword. A scratch from its blade would soon prove worse than fatal, making the victim a wraith as well. It weaves a net of paralyzing fear. We may inconvenience it with fire, or….” Legolas shrugged. “Perhaps it will not cross the water.”

"Perhaps." Gimli did not sound convinced. "We may hope that it is not among our pursuers. Look,” he pointed ahead. “The tunnel turns upward soon, and there are forks ahead. We must decide which one to take.”

“We should pause here to rest. I will stand watch.”

They settled on an alcove near the forks. Legolas sat still, alert for any sound or sense, while Gimli curled himself up inside his cloak and lay shivering. Even if the tunnel were dry, Legolas had no mind to risk a fire.

He took up the dwarf’s club and used his knife to smooth the worst of the splinters and bark from the narrow end, fashioning the best hand-grip he could. Then he whetted his knife sharp again, pausing every few moments to listen.

Strain his ears though he might, the elf could detect no sign of pursuit. Maybe he had been wrong about the wraith, or maybe it had been satisfied with its catch and had decided to let the stragglers go. That would be luck beyond hope.

After a time the dwarf began to snore, but Legolas remained uneasy. The very stones around him whispered their worry. Even Gimli seemed to sense it, scowling in his sleep and shifting restlessly.

Legolas let the dwarf rest as long as he could, but when the sounds of stealthy motion reached him, he set his hand over Gimli’s mouth.

“Orcs are coming,” he breathed.

Gimli wrapped his fist around his club and sat up, tilting his head to listen. “They come down the left fork,” he murmured. “We should hide in the right fork and hope they do not go that way. We may be lucky enough to steal around them and continue to the surface without doing battle.” He sounded almost reluctant, but Legolas agreed. Now was not the time for confrontation, not with both of them all but unarmed, still so many days’ walk from the palace.

They stole away from the main hall and waited as the soft clatter came nearer. Soon they could hear whispers in the black speech, the orcs’ foul voices filled with hate. The orcs passed into the main tunnel, but did not turn aside to explore others, moving toward the collapse in a steady stream.

“They are stealthy as an avalanche,” Gimli muttered, wrapping his fist tightly about his club. 

“They think they have us trapped.”

When the last orcs had passed, Legolas set his hand on Gimli’s shoulder and urged him out. He drew his bow and strung it. Only four arrows remained in his quiver. He nocked one, ready to draw and shoot, as they padded silently up the tunnel from which the orcs had come.

They might have escaped without ever being discovered, had the tunnel been but a little larger.

“Hst.” The dwarf stopped Legolas before he could step out, his words barely loud enough for even the elf’s sharp ears. “I smell troll.”

It stood hidden in the shadow of the hill, too large to enter the small covert, hulking over the mouth of the tunnel with its club raised.

Legolas drew his bow, sighting against the blackness. Ill-aimed arrows would bounce off a troll’s hide, and he did not have enough to waste. He waited, letting his body settle, looking for some sign to guide his aim. He found it in the flutter of breath through broad nostrils.

He loosed his arrow, which sang through the air straight and true, finding the troll’s eye. It bellowed and dropped its club, clapping its massive hand over its wounded face.

“That has wakened the whole forest!” Gimli darted forward past the troll's trunk-thick legs and Legolas stayed at his heels.

The troll recovered, groping for its club, and lumbered after them with a creaking bellow. Its long legs ate the ground steadily, and behind it Legolas could hear the shouting of goblins hurrying to its aid.

Ignoring the rough ground underfoot, he caught the dwarf’s shoulder and ran blind, hoping to find the road. He was out of his reckoning from the time spent underground, but if they kept to the east, they should find their path.

The troll struck a tree in its blundering flight, and the thick oak toppled with a groan and rumble, nearly crushing them both amidst a rain of thrashing branches. Gimli swore. “There are more orcs ahead!”

They speeded their pace and burst into the loose troop of orcs, taking them by surprise. Gimli battered aside crude swords with his tough club, and Legolas turned, running backward, to loose another arrow. He missed the troll’s second eye in the darkness, his wasted arrow bouncing off its stony forehead.

Its club descended and Legolas leaped away, the ground shaking like the end of days as the huge club smashed down just where his feet had rested. He ran up the troll’s arm, quick as thinking, and nocked his last two arrows at once, firing them straight into the creature’s skull.

It roared, flailing, and he leaped away, but he had lost the dwarf.

The cave troll did not fall, still lashing about with its enormous club, not caring when it swiped away orcs, who sailed through the air screaming and crashed to the ground, crumpled in motionless heaps.

“Dwarf!” He looked about in haste.

The dwarf was there in the thick of the battle, half-buried beneath orcs. Legolas drew his knives and carved a swath through the melee, flashing steel a halo of death around him, freeing Gimli to rise. The troll’s lumbering steps shook the ground. Legolas dodged, sensing the club’s descent at the last moment, and caught an orc-sword between his knives, flinging it back before it would have cleaved the dwarf’s skull.

“That troll is too stupid to die!” Gimli swung his club, smashing an orc’s face. They leaped across its corpse, barely avoiding one huge foot as the troll tried to stamp them into an oily smear upon the forest loam. Few orcs remained, most of them small mountain goblins. They retreated in fear before the dwarf’s club, gibbering.

Legolas laid his hand on Gimli’s arm. “If I do not return to you, find the road and do not leave it for any cause. Look for small stones of white quartz set into the mould at every fork or turning, and follow the path they mark."

An orc-arrow creased his arm, burning a path along the muscle, but Legolas ignored it, spinning and diving between the troll’s legs. He slashed at its hamstring with his knife, but the tough skin slowed his arm, and he could not sever the wiry sinew.

The troll spun, tracking him, and he darted around it, leading it in a lumbering circle until it dizzied. Then he stopped, and when it tried to swing again, he dodged the club and swarmed up its arm once more, leading with his knife. The thing's remaining eye, glittering and misshapen in its lumpy face, gleamed at him balefully. He plunged his blade with all his strength, and the eye went out, reeking black ichor spraying forth to coat his arm.

The troll screamed, thrashing and beating at its face, trying to crush him against its own skin. Legolas fell, spinning in midair and landing on his feet, but sudden dizziness made him stumble.

Behind him the troll tried to take a step forward, but teetered and fell, unable to judge its whereabouts. The impact shook Legolas to the ground, where he lay for a moment, stunned. A line of dark fire burned along his arm from the orc’s arrow.

A dwarven foot appeared on either side of Legolas. Gimli had not fled. He roared, swiping away goblins. He had found an orc-axe, and he battered the lesser goblins away with its blunt blade, hewing off limbs and crushing necks.

The last ranks of goblins broke in the face of his savagery, turning to flee back toward the tunnels. The forest fell still, silent but for the groaning of the troll. A rough, blunt hand came under Legolas’s good shoulder, hauling him up.

“We must not stay.” The dwarf pulled him forward. “Which way is the road, elf?”

Legolas pointed—his best guess—and hoped he was right.

“I am wounded,” he warned Gimli.

“You will throw off that scratch as if it is nothing,” Gimli assured him, but he could hear the dismay in the dwarf’s voice. “Surely there are healers among your people.”

If Legolas could travel so far. He could feel poison working in the wound, its foul influence burning through his arm. He had lost his bow, but it was useless to him without arrows, so he did not pause to look for it.

They climbed over a crumbling breastwork, once again finding themselves in the ravine with its sluggish stream. Gimli paused, bending to the ground. “We must go quickly,” Legolas muttered.

“Aye. But stop a moment.” The dwarf ripped a strip off his tunic and wet it. “Bend so I can reach you.” He washed the bleeding wound as best he could, clicking his tongue, then tore another strip and bound it. “When we stop to rest, I will chew a poultice for it.”

“Where will you find herbs?” Legolas passed his hand across his face.

“You gave them to me yourself,” the dwarf chuckled, the first time Legolas had ever heard such a thing from one of the dour folk of Durin.

A ululating war-cry split the air; the goblins rallied themselves for the hunt.

“Orcs,” Gimli spat. “Let’s go.” They hurried to lose themselves amidst the trees.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli proves he is a creature of honor. Will it matter to Thranduil?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mild profanity

They wasted only half an hour in finding the road, then set forth as quickly as they could manage. There were fewer webs along its length than along the many trackless paths; the elves had taught the spiders to fear them, and the beasts often avoided their works.

Nevertheless they were forced more than once to stand and fight. Whenever the spiders descended, they stood back to back upon the rough cobbles and fought, Legolas with his knives and the dwarf with his stolen axe. The spiders swiftly learned to stay back and tried to snare them with webs, dancing almost out of range, until the two chopped off enough of their legs to send them fleeing.

Legolas fared well for the first few days, able to ignore the burning of his wound and no more than a little dizzy if he moved too quickly. But when Legolas began to flag, Gimli frowned at him.

“We will rest here,” he declared, and Legolas was weary, so he did not refuse. The dwarf took off his pack and rummaged within, coming up with the small pouch of pipeweed the elf had purchased.

“Let me tend your arm.” He unbound the wound and clucked his tongue. “It has begun to fester, but this should help.” He stuffed a wad of the pungent herb into his mouth and began to chew, making a face. “This stuff is better for smoking,” he muttered, but he did not stop until he had worked the stuff down and could smear it over the edges of the cut.

Legolas blinked; he felt less pain almost at once. He moved his arm, testing it. It still served him in battle, but it was slower than the other, and he doubted by morning he would be able to lift it.

“You are not well yet,” Gimli cautioned. “Be still and let the medicine work!” He tore another strip from his tunic and bound the arm. 

“I dare not risk a fire,” the dwarf muttered. “We do not want to draw more spiders.” The night was bitter, with a cold wind from the north. It whistled down through the trees, making the forest rustle. Branches rubbed together, cracking and groaning. Though most of the leaves had fallen, withered and brown, clouds covered both stars and moon.

“This road is a funnel that sucks the gale along its path. It will turn my hands to icicles,” Gimli grumbled, tucking the caps of his mitts over his fingers. He led Legolas to the road’s edge, where they settled amidst a cluster of bushes that provided a meager screen against the chill. “Lie here. You may not have to sleep when you are whole, but that wound will not heal if you do not rest,” he told Legolas, stern. “I will sit the first watch.”

Reluctant, Legolas lay back, wishing he could see the stars in the cloud-choked sky above them. The dwarf tucked himself against Legolas for warmth, growling and muttering, folding his cloak and blankets as tightly around them both as he could manage. Legolas blinked at him in surprise.

“Suffer this for me, if you do not mind the cold. I am a creature of forge and fire, not winter wind and snowmelt!” Gimli snapped.

Legolas found himself weary, and closed his eyes to rest—but opened them some unknown time later, shivering.

“Your skin is hot, though you shiver,” the dwarf fretted. He thumbed open one of Legolas’s eyelids, studying it. “And your pupils have blown.”

“I am well,” Legolas insisted, though he did not feel it. He would not confess his infirmity before a dwarf.

“I have felt no wraith-spell, at least,” Gimli sighed. “It must have stayed behind.”

With the prisoners. Legolas scowled. “We should go on, if you have rested.” He could not get home to send help quickly enough.

“It is too cold to sleep.” The dwarf struggled upright. This time he led the way, and Legolas did not question him, focused on keeping upright and walking without a stagger. His arm felt like ice dipped in molten fire.

It was really rather hot in the wood, especially for the month of Hithui. Legolas blinked and pushed back his cloak. Gimli tutted at him. “Keep moving, elf.”

They did, and Legolas decided to count how many times the inky black of night gave way to the dim of day. It took too long to amuse him, and he forgot his count after a time, so he began to sing to himself to pass the miles, drawing a concerned look from the dwarf.

The spiders will hear,” he said with tooth-clenched patience. “For the fourth time.”

“If you would have me hear you, speak louder!” Legolas tried for his father’s best impatient tone and only succeeded in making the dwarf roll his eyes.

“We do not want every spider in this foul wood to come down upon our heads, and the wraith and its legions besides!”

“That is true,” Legolas said equably, and then began again to sing to himself. Rather quietly, he thought.

*****

In another three days, the tobacco ran out. It hadn’t helped much, Gimli knew. The elf had finally grown too sick to sing, his silence a source of never-ending relief. Gimli was glad the prince had revealed the secret of the road, or they would have been lost a thousand times over. Assuming the white stones actually led them anywhere of use.

He eased his chest against the breast-band of the rough travois he had fashioned and glanced back over his shoulder to see the elf lying upon it, his fair face drawn in a scowl. Legolas was mumbling under his breath, quite unintelligible to Gimli.

“If you die on me, elf, your father will string my guts between the trees until I have none left, and leave me to be picked by crows.”

Ignoring his aching, bloody feet-- the rags of the elf’s cloak had worn through and dropped off days ago-- Gimli pressed on through both daylight and dark, sensing the elf’s time slipping away. Under the best of conditions he could make thirty or even forty miles a day, but these conditions were far from ideal. Still, he pressed on, ignoring fatigue and pain. The damnable elf had been kind to Gimli, and was honorable in his way. He might be Thranduil’s spawn, but he did not deserve to die from an orc-scratch.

The two of them drew little interest from spiders now the elf had stopped his infernal singing, or perhaps they had simply entered less dangerous regions. Gimli could hardly estimate their position, but he hoped they would reach Thranduil’s people soon. 

After a time Gimli stopped and ate, fueling his body so he might continue marching. The elf shivered, so he lay down at Legolas’s side to eat, spreading the cloak over them both again. Legolas gazed at Gimli with unseeing eyes, expression intent, and peppered him with a rapid spate of fluid Elvish.

“I don’t understand.” Gimli found himself oddly transfixed by the elf’s gaze. Thanks to the difference in height, he had never before seen one of the fair folk so close, nose to nose. Legolas’s eyes were clear blue-grey, but they had flecks of amber and gold in their glazed depths. They had an odd power to transfix, drawing him in as if they were pools of clean water in which he might drown.

Legolas said something, a low murmur, barely more than a breath, but Gimli blinked away the elf's gathering spell, shaking his head.

“I have no idea what you’re telling me, elf, but we have to be moving on. You’re getting worse.” He wrestled himself upright, then folded his fur-lined cloak around as much of the elf as it would cover. Towing the travois and its burden would keep him warm enough. He would not rest until he reached help.

Thus Gimli finally stumbled all the way to the doors of Thranduil, dragging his fast-fading burden.

Guards leaped forward, brandishing spears at Gimli, but their eyes grew wide when they spied their wounded prince.

A frantic bustle ensued. Gimli could understand none of it, but one of the gate guards put the tip of his spear to Gimli’s throat and edged him aside. Legolas was carried inside in haste, leaving Gimli shivering and spent, barely able to stand, his shoulders pressed against the smooth stone pillar by the gate.

Thranduil arrived in a sweeping flurry of robes, his crown glittering in the light. He brought more guards. They bound Gimli’s hands and dragged him from the gate, propelling him inside the cavernous hall.

They finally stopped at the base of the king’s throne. Thranduil ascended, gliding as if there were no reason to hurry. When he seated himself, one of the guards stepped forth. “What happened to the prince?” The guard snapped. Gimli sighed. Of course it had to be the one Legolas named Andrath, who had come so near cutting off Gimli’s beard.

“We were attacked in the south. We fought a troll and orcs. Legolas said—”

“Prince Legolas to you, dwarf!” The elf corrected him sharply, and in his exhaustion, Gimli’s temper failed.

“Crown Prince Legolas Thranduilion, the almighty and puissant superior of all he surveys, he whose shite does not stink and whose feet none are fit to kiss, said there was a wraith!” He found himself roaring the words in the elf’s face. He had known how this confrontation would end before ever building the travois and placing Legolas upon it.

“Where are your companions?”

“Taken.” Gimli ignored the blade at his throat and did not glance up toward Thranduil, who sat watching, silent. “By the wraith, your precious prince guessed. He and I were scouting when the first attack took place.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you met with orcs and betrayed your party to them. Or you slew the others yourself, then returned here with the prince, believing he was fatally wounded, hoping to cover your guilt.”

“Are you truly so stupid as to believe I would return here with your prince in tow had I allied myself with orcs and killed an entire war party of elves? Not to say I’m not flattered you think I could do it single-handedly without armor or weapon. Perhaps I could, if they were all as thick as you!” This time he did shoot a look toward Thranduil, including him in the insult.

The dark-haired elf bared his teeth and the tip of his blade prickled Gimli’s throat.

“You are armed, dwarf, with an orc weapon!” Andrath’s knife slit Gimli’s belt and the axe dropped, clanking to the floor with dull accusation.

“I killed the orc who wielded it and took it so I might defend myself from others like him. Not to mention protecting your precious prince from spiders as I hauled his helpless wounded arse home to the lot of you point-eared ingrates!” Gimli set his jaw, pugnacious.

“How did you find your way through the forest? How did you reach this place? You were led forth blindfold.” Andrath glanced to his king, who leaned forward, intent, to hear Gimli’s answer.

Gimli refused to speak further, accepting the inevitable.

Thranduil stood. “We will do better to ask our questions of Legolas when he recovers.” He spoke lazily, as if the matter was of no import. “If you are lying, dwarf, it will go hard with you." He turned his cool gaze to Andrath. "Take the dwarf to a cell.” He sniffed. “Wash it first.” He rolled his eyes, the smirk never leaving his thin lips. “Do they seek out filth to wallow in?”

Thus Gimli was scrubbed again in icy water and doused in perfume, given no welcome or thanks, little food, no new or warmer clothes, no boots, and thrown inside a rather less comfortable prison than before, with no heat and no rug, just a hard cot.

He would have to trust Legolas would recover. But even so, the elven prince would likely give him no proper gratitude.

That was the way of elves. Was it not?

Gimli curled up under his single thin blanket with a shrug and settled in to nurse his sore feet. His cell was warm even without a fire, when compared to the woods. He fell fast asleep almost before his head touched the meager pillow.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas contemplates the value of subordination to the elf who is both his father and his king.
> 
> To heck with waiting till Tuesday. I'm going to post now because I'm working on two separate chunks of the future plot, fighting:  
> 1\. A whole blasted gaggle of villains  
> 2\. An elf who won't keep his prying questions to himself  
> 3\. A dwarf who is NOT READY FOR THIS !@^% and is going to have an aneurysm if the elf doesn't keep his prying questions to himself  
> 4\. A hobbit who WILL. NOT. OPEN. UP. AND. TALK. TO. ME. *beats head on desk*  
> 5\. The council of Rivendell setup _in toto_ , both behind the scenes and at the council-- with at least three completely disastrous, antagonistic, uncooperative additional participants, one of whom DID THE THING I TOLD HIM NOT TO DO. DON'T DO THE THING, I SAID, SO HE DID THE THING.  
> 6\. A lot of plot-altering decisions to make and I can't stand to sacrifice any of the tasty possibilities  
> 7\. A huge backlog of day-job work that is not getting done in a timely fashion
> 
> So you guys get the benefit, LOL!

“The healers will leave us now.” Thranduil arrived at his son’s bedside soon after Legolas had found his wits again. As he stood before his son, his fingertips touched the rich brocade of his robe, tracing the outline of a single figure. “Report now to me.” His face was smooth, impassive.

Legolas did so, taking pains to give Gimli the dwarf fair credit for his part in the tale. Thranduil listened, his pale eyes set on his son’s face, his fingers unceasing as they moved restlessly over the design in the soft fabric. Legolas did not know if his father’s fidgeting revealed anger or impatience-- or merely a restless desire to be elsewhere.

“You revealed the secret of our woodland paths to the dwarf.”

“That is not important.” Legolas ran his palm over his face. “We must give battle to the wraith who took my company. Give me leave to muster our troops, and I will ride south to drive it out again. If any of our people are still alive--”

“The keep is accursed, and it is not worth fighting for.” Thranduil’s voice never altered. “You should not have traveled so close. Patrols are to stop upon reaching the East Bight.”

“The spiders do not stop there. If we would finish them for once and all, we must confront them at their source.” Legolas sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the couch. The healer said he must remain abed for a day yet, but he could not lie idle while a wraith yet lurked in the Greenwood.

“My command was to drive the spiders from our lands, not to pursue them so far you endangered your companions.” Thranduil set his hand in the center of Legolas’s chest and pressed him to lie back among the pillows. “That choice is your folly to bear, not mine. Spiders are little threat, and we can drive them off at will. I will not spend the blood of more elves in battle with a wraith. I will keep them safe.” 

“For now. But when the wraith gathers strength, when the shadow rises again in the east, what then will we do? How will we prevail when none remain to answer our call for aid?”

“When that time comes I will lead our people west. We will sail across the sea and let this world sink into damnation and destruction, as it is so clearly meant to do!” Thranduil met his son’s gaze at last, his expression terrible. “Why should elves suffer and die, when we stand apart, superior to mortal concerns?”

“Apart, you say.” Legolas lifted his chin, stubborn, remembering the wisdom of Tauriel. “Yet I would say we are a part, and my conscience will not let me act otherwise. Those with the strength to fight the shadow must use it.”

I wonder if I have done the right thing in giving you the right to lead others,” Thranduil mused. “If you cannot obey your king, then why should you command? If you cannot even be trusted to shepherd the dwarf--”

“He is valiant!” Legolas sat upright once more. “And he has shown his honor and his worth. Why will you not see it? He could have left me to die a dozen times over and gone off to his kin, but he did not.”

“It seeks to win your confidence, so you will reveal more secrets of our ways.” Thranduil looked away. “It will use them against us later. Its kind does not forget.”

“Does ours?” Legolas lay back in despair, but Thranduil gave no response. “Will you listen to nothing that I say?” Legolas wondered at his father’s folly. He had never expected to hear Thranduil say he would be willing to sail, to return to the company of the Noldor-- even the Valar, both of whom he disliked, preferring his Silvan subjects.

Or perhaps he merely preferred... to rule. To stand apart from all, even from his subjects, superior and untouchable until the end.

Even to his son.

“If you had not been hampered by your intent to protect the dwarf, you would never have been wounded. You should have left him to divert the shadow-spawn and come away.”

It was the same argument Thranduil made for refusing to aid the surrounding lands, only on a lesser scale. Legolas thought of leaving Gimli to the mercy of the troll and the goblins, unarmed and helpless, his grudging trust forsaken. He pictured himself climbing up into the treetops instead of fighting at the dwarf's side, running free while Gimli died, returning home to his father to report the loss of everyone he had led forth. Would Thranduil have been more forgiving even then? He thought not. But it did not matter.

“Had I done that, I would have taken more harm than if the orcs or the wraith had slain me,” Legolas said slowly.

His father looked down at him, stern and aloof, with no understanding in his eyes. 

Legolas closed his own, suddenly weary beyond measure. How many times over the long years had he failed to earn Thranduil's respect when they disagreed? How many times had he despaired of receiving understanding from his _ada_ and succumbed instead to the cold orders of his king?

“Rest now. When you arise, come before me. I will give you some new assignment, one more befitting your temperament.” Thranduil turned away.

Legolas let silence speak for him, knowing his father would mistake it for acquiescence. 

*****

Some days after his return to the halls of Thranduil, just after Nardan brought him bread and cold water to break his fast, Gimli felt eyes on him and looked up to find the prince standing at the cell door, gazing in through the bars, seeming fully recovered.

Gimli had never imagined to feel relief when looking at the elf, but his heart lightened to see the prince standing firm on his feet. He hid his pleasure behind a scowl. 

Neither spoke, but Gimli set down the loaf and continued chewing, then washed his mouthful down with a swig of water. He glared at the elf, refusing to speak first.

Legolas reached and flung the door wide, then stood in it, high color on his cheeks. He looked out of sorts, still a bit weak, Gimli judged. He took another bite of bread. If the elf would not speak, then he would finish his meal, such as it was.

“Is this how my father thanks you for my life?” Legolas’s voice was thick with wrath.

Gimli shrugged. Lifting his cup, he tilted it to drink, but Legolas dashed it from his hand in a sudden show of anger.

“Come with me.”

They went through the caverns together, the prince choosing little-traveled ways. Gimli trotted along, not questioning his guide, though curiosity burned hot in him. At last they emerged into an ornate hall and passed into a side-chamber cut near the surface of the hill, one with many windows looking out into the wood. The walls were carved in the shapes of trees and fashioned with lacquered green leaves and flowers embossed in gold and truesilver. A fine rug lay upon the smooth floor and small sleeping couch stood by one window, where the sleeper might look out and see the sky. The prince’s own sleeping chamber, perhaps.

Legolas went to one of the windows, staring out, his jaw set so hard Gimli could have used it to cut and facet diamond.

"Why did you save me in the wood?" The words were simple enough, but the elf's voice burned with the same intensity he had shown since he appeared at Gimli's cell.

Gimli stared at him. "Because I would not leave even an--" he hesitated, then continued roughly. "Even an elf to the mercy of orcs."

"And why is that?"

"Because it would not be right. Orcs are foul creatures, evil things. They delight in destroying all that is good." Gimli scowled.

"And elves?"

"Must I say it? Elves are not so." Gimli growled. "Maddening, fey, two-faced, cold, vain, untrustworthy? Indeed. But evil? No. And some...." he flushed. "Some, I suppose, are not so bad as others." He paused, but the elf still gazed on him, waiting. Gimli folded his arms and met him glare for glare. "Whether I liked him or not, I would not willingly leave a companion behind me to die."

"Nor would I." Legolas smiled without humor. A large canvas sack lay upon the rug, and he gestured Gimli forward to open it.

There, washed and neatly mended, he found his dwarven clothing and his mail, and his new fur-lined cloak, carefully brushed and cleaned. He ran his hand over the brocade of his surcoat, wondering at this turn of fortune.

Legolas went to a little table and poured wine in a jeweled goblet, handing it to Gimli. “I would have prepared food and had it waiting, had I known the extent of your privation.” He forced speech between clenched teeth.

“I thank you.” Gimli said mildly. The elf seemed a volcano, bubbling near eruption. “But I do not know the meaning of this.” He lifted one of his gauntlets to illustrate.

“There are more ways than one in which to fulfill your vow.” Legolas said. “As you were given to me, and that gift has not yet been revoked, I may choose the place and type of your service. Dress now in your own clothing, Gimli. We are leaving these halls.” His voice seethed, and Gimli realized the elf’s wrath must be directed at his father, the king. For Thranduil's ingratitude to Gimli? Surely that could not be it.

Gimli did not have time to consider the nuances of the prince’s action, but he would be glad to leave the halls of Thranduil, and to be shed of as many elves as could be managed. “Aye.” Gimli took a swig of wine and set the cup aside, throwing off his elf-rags. What did it matter? This elf had seen his skin already. He dressed with care, feeling his own clothing settling onto him and sighing with relief. It had been sorely missed. “But what of your kin? Will you not journey with them to raid the ruin?”

Legolas’s face pinched even tighter. “My father says he will not venture such a raid. He will not go southward beyond our bounds, and chastened me for straying past them. The loss of my company is on my head, he says. I alone am left to bear the guilt of their passing.”

Gimli clicked his tongue. It seemed Thranduil did not reserve his harsh treatment only for dwarves. This knowledge explained Legolas’s actions far better than simple ire at Gimli’s treatment. No elf would ever forsake hall and kin for the sake of a dwarf’s dishonor. And yet… Legolas had not chosen to leave alone, abandoning Gimli in his cell, and had even returned his traveling clothes.

Wonders would never cease, it seemed.

“Where do we journey?” Gimli stamped his feet, settling them in his comfortable iron-shod boots.

“We will seek Mithrandir. The White Council must be told their cleansing of the keep has already failed. It may be the wizard is still in Dale or Erebor. If he is not, then we will make another plan.” Legolas tucked a pouch of coin into his belt and tossed a smaller one to Gimli. Gimli blinked at it, shocked, then tied it securely to his belt.

“Is there anything else you need?” Two packs leaned against the wall and Legolas shouldered one. Gimli took the other, glancing inside.

“If there is food and ale, I am content.”

Legolas nodded, curt, and took up another sack. He drew out his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Holding the mouth of the sack closed, he led Gimli out into the corridor.

“We will leave through the back gate.”

He led Gimli swiftly down a spiraling stair, across narrow pathways in the deep, then down again. Gimli could hear running water, and he guessed they neared the lowest level of the cavern palace, from whence Thorin’s company had made their escape. He hustled to keep up, trying to make as little noise as he might, but his heavy boots rang on the stone.

Legolas darted aside, and Gimli followed, finding the elf standing on the threshold of an open portal. Together they looked out into night. The path descended and led to a bridge over a swift river that descended from stone to stone in a froth of white water.

Legolas took a deep breath, gazing down at Gimli for a moment. He seemed about to speak, but did not. He glanced back the way they had come, his face taut with pain, and for a moment Gimli wondered if he would repent his course and change his mind.

“Let us go,” Legolas said at last. They stepped out, closing the door behind them and locking the warm light of candle and lantern inside the hill.

It took a moment for Gimli’s eyes to adjust. There was light in the air, cool and white, as the dawn drew near and the night stars faded. It glowed in the foaming water below them and on the smooth-carved path before their feet.

“Come,” Legolas led him forward. The bridge wardens did not challenge their prince, though they shifted their feet and exchanged glances as he and Gimli passed.

They followed the river’s descending course for some time. When the rim of the sun broke over the horizon, Legolas stopped and turned to Gimli. “Now we are beyond the edge of my father’s realm, and there are no more sentries to see or to guard as we go forth. You may need this.” He opened his sack.

The orc-axe lay inside, and Gimli blinked at it, amazed.

“I could find no better one to offer. We will get another in Dale, more suited for you to carry.” Legolas handed the axe to Gimli, who took it slowly.

“My thanks, elf.” He turned the weapon in his hands, wondering at his companion.

“And my thanks to you, Gimli.” Legolas uttered his sky-name to him for the first time, and Gimli felt his spine straighten with surprise and pride. “If not for you I would have perished in the forest. The orc arrow was dipped in a fell poison. Run as I might, it would have caught me short of home.” His face twisted with pain again, just for a moment.

Home, which now lay behind Legolas, perhaps forever. Gimli cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

“There is this, as well.” Legolas smiled, putting the moment of dismay behind him and reached into the sack once more, drawing out a smaller bag, finely made. Gimli’s eyes went wide as he opened it.

“Wool and your chosen instruments for working it,” Legolas said softly. “Dineth the weaver wished you to have them.”

“She knew of our leaving?”

“While I was in the care of the healers, she attempted to take your part and argued with my father. To his considerable displeasure.” Legolas waited while Gimli stowed his new belongings in his pack. “It was she who made me aware of your plight after I recovered enough to rise, and she who saw to the laundering and care of your clothing.”

Gimli cleared his throat and glanced away. “Aye. Well. I am learning not all elves are so awful as I have been taught.”

Legolas did not laugh. “Perhaps not all dwarves are so terrible, either.” He looked away also, both of them embarrassed. “If we can find passage on a boat, we may be in Esgaroth in time to find lodging for the night.”

“Aye.“ Gimli said again. “Let’s move.”

They were in luck, and rapidly found an accommodating bargeman who poled them across the lake with his cargo of foodstuffs. Construction seemed everywhere, the pale gold of new wood shining among old, weather-dulled pilings and piers that rose out of the lake to end in char.

They were much earlier than they had hoped, and the sun was just beginning to sink in the west when they landed. Legolas paid their fare while Gimli looked about. An enterprising young lad was selling meat pasties upon the docks. They bought two, pleased to find the filling inside still hot. Legolas ate eagerly enough, though Gimli was surprised to see him consume the flesh of an animal.

“Elves eat meat when it is served to us, though it is not our first choice, and we do not often slaughter beasts for our tables.” Legolas noticed Gimli’s surprise and answered it. He had a most unseemly trickle of juice at one side of his lips, and he made a face as he finished.

“I have nothing to clean myself,” he commented, rueful.

“Your sleeve will do. It is what they are for!”

Legolas licked the juice away instead, his long pink tongue darting forth. He wiped away the rest of the stain with his finger, then popped the finger into his mouth and sucked it clean.

It was a strange gesture for an elf, sensual and almost earthy, one that conjured unseemly thoughts. Gimli blinked wide-eyed at the elven prince, then flung his head back and laughed so loudly half the dockworkers turned to stare.

“Am I so amusing, then?” Legolas arched an eyebrow at him in surprise.

“Yes. You are.” Gimli left it at that, and the elf did not press.

*****

Inquiries among the townsfolk placed the wizard in Erebor. Legolas bowed. “Then we will seek him there. I thank you.”

Gimli sucked his teeth, considering. Legolas shot him a glance. “You would say something?”

“It will be interesting to see the prince of the wood, Thranduil’s son, petition to enter Dale.” Dale? Perhaps the elf might be given leave to enter Dale. The mountain? Never.

“You believe my request will be refused.”

“You will do better to ask the wizard to come out and meet with us.”

“If I must. Yet I confess, I had hoped your presence would ease my path.”

Gimli nodded, though a pang of regret shot through him. Legolas was wrong, but Gimli had no desire to explain. He felt his spirits fading. This was the practical and selfish reason, then, why the elf had not left him to rot in his cell. It was to be expected: Elves valued dwarves only for use, not for respect or honor.

Legolas frowned, his smooth forehead creasing as he perceived Gimli’s sinking mood. “And there is more. I had hoped we would not have to go to such an extent. But my father… he will not be pleased to learn I have left his kingdom without leave, or that I have taken you with me, though you were left in my charge. Gimli….” Legolas sighed. “It must be clear while we deal with your people that you are yet chattel to the house of Thranduil, or my father may choose to withdraw his aid on the grounds I have freed you.”

Gimli scowled. “You mean to order me about.” He had expected that anyway, but no point in letting the elf know. Still, the elf’s commands were usually not too unpleasant. Even when they were strict, Gimli had observed they at least had the virtue of being necessary.

“Yes, I will. I may not direct you in ways you enjoy. I must require, first, that you wear the livery of my house, so there will be no question of your status in the minds of those who see you.”

Gimli set his jaw, forcing down anger. Every time the elf began to seem a tolerable companion, something worse occurred! “I live to serve the House of Thranduil,” he bit out through clenched teeth, and indeed he did. For seventy-seven years. But his memory was long. if Legolas treated him amiss, there would be vengeance to consider when his term ended!

He gave the elf a sour look, dumping his weapon back in its burlap bag.

“Let us find a lodging and leave this place when dawn comes," Legolas told him. "Delay is to no good purpose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ada_ : Father


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli begins to discover the true cost of his sacrifice when he must go among his kinsmen.

They departed Laketown as they had come. When they reached the shore clouds were beginning to gather and a mist rose from the lake to shroud the land, but Gimli knew the way.

Except for the river path, a long and difficult road where goods ascended and descended along the course of the water in cars lifted by pulleys, the foothills of Erebor were a trackless waste of barren stone. The pleasant woods from the days of Thrain, often spoken of by Gimli’s father, had long been scoured away by dragon fire. Left unguided, only a dwarf could decipher the trackless labyrinth and find the shortest path across the ridge that rose to Ravenhill. While it would take an army a day to ascend through endless winding valleys and sheer ravines along the River Running to reach Dale, a hardy dwarf might make the climb straight over the ridge-tops and travel all the way to Erebor’s gate in less than four hours.

Gimli sought for subtle carved signs that marked their turnings, tracing the path with ease. It was forbidden to speak of them to other races, but he remembered the elf’s words when he was injured and the white quartz that had guided Gimli to safety beneath the canopy of the lightless wood.

“Should you find yourself alone and wandering here, seek at the base of the stones for runes. The one with two tall lines and a shorter slanted line midway between them will lead you safely back toward the docks. Others….” Gimli cleared his throat harshly. “Others will not.” He held the elf’s gaze sternly, ensuring his companion did not miss the significance of his warning. Should the elf try to climb alone to Erebor, the false runes carved to lead spies astray would turn him toward precipices or other perils. Those secrets Gimli would keep.

They made Dale after three hours of strenuous climbing, the fog growing so thick about them Legolas was forced to keep his hand on Gimli’s shoulder so they would not be parted. As they neared the city, halos of light caught in the mist and marked glowing torches on the walls. Gimli followed the path straight to the gate.

“I am a son of Mahal. Open the gates!” He tapped at the knocker, signaling himself a dwarf of Durin’s line. A peephole slid open in the sally port, and a dwarf stared out at him, eyes wide with surprise.

“You are strangely clad, for a dwarf. Is it Gimli? It is. Have you been released by the leaf-eating swine, or have you fled your part in the king’s bargain?” His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “And who is with you? An elf?”

“I was he you call Gimli. I have come for neither purpose you mention, but urgent business is afoot. Where is Tharkûn? We were told he is within the mountain. I ask entry here on behalf of my master.” The word tasted awkward and bitter, and he sensed the elf give a small start at hearing it spoken. “He is Legolas, son of Thranduil, prince of the Woodland Realm.”

The dwarf spat to one side, glowering at Gimli. “Wait without until the clouds lift, when we may see you!”

“Let us in at once, so we may send for the wizard! It is a matter that requires haste.” Legolas bent to glare through the peephole, imperious, and met with a violent oath. Gimli shoved him away, exasperated.

“That is not the way of bargaining with a dwarf,” he muttered. “You will have us sent back to Esgaroth with our purpose wasted and arrows bouncing at our heels!” The price of entry had just risen from silver to gold, he knew. A goodly portion, too.

“Open the portal, and I will buy you an ale,” he tried to wheedle. “The color of my gold is good.” He fumbled in his pouch and blinked. It was good indeed; Legolas had not been miserly. His purse held gold and silver coins in plenty. He held up a fat golden coin, pinching it so the dwarf could see how his thumbnail marked the metal. 

“You are lost to Erebor, and I should not see you,” the warden growled.

“I do business on my master’s behalf. This will buy ale and more for all the gate-guardians when your shift ends.” He had placed the dwarf now. They had played at dice in a tavern once when Glóin had business in Dale. “Come, Austri, son of Arn. You know me. We two travelers are alone, and our errand is no threat to any here. I daresay Thorin would be glad to see us lead the wizard away. If I have led an army of elves to this place, may Durin blast my beard!”

The gold spoke louder than Gimli’s tongue. Austri grumbled, but when Gimli added a second thick coin, at last he swung open the sally port—opening only the lower half, so Legolas was forced to bend his head to enter.

Gimli passed over the promised coins, but did not close his pouch, letting Austri see the promise of more. “How best might we reach the wizard?” He asked, keeping his tone idle, but jingling the coins. The elf had the sense to keep his mouth silent. He stood nearby, looming over Austri, an implicit threat. The elf kept his expression so austere Gimli might have mistaken the son for the father, if only Legolas wore a crown.

“You must go to the lord mayor. He will see to your lodging.” Austri directed his answer to the elf, his glare hostile. “Then if he chooses, he may send word to the mountain.”

“Indeed.” Legolas took Gimli’s pouch from him, his voice was crisp with frost. “Direct me there at once!” He snapped his fingers sharply at Gimli.

Austri growled low in his throat and Gimli felt his own hackles rise, for all the elf had warned him to expect such treatment. He passed over a third coin. “This way,” Gimli managed to growl between clenched teeth. Legolas followed him past the gate into Dale, so silent Gimli might almost have imagined he had vanished, if not for the amazed and outraged looks they gathered.

“Dori’s residence is on the far end of town,” Gimli kept his voice neutral, as close as he could come to submission. “It houses the gate from the city to Erebor. None pass through without his approval.” Legolas nodded. When they passed through a close alley where they would not be seen, he wordlessly returned Gimli’s money pouch to him.

it was none too soon. News of their arrival spread through the streets like wildfire, with numerous muttering men and dwarves turning out to see them pass. When they finally made their way through the press to the north end of the city, Dori was already waiting, standing on the stair of his palatial house, wearing rich fur-trimmed robes and the silver fillet that marked his rank.

His eyes fell on Gimli and rested there. Though he did not move, Gimli could see him stiffen, his expression going wooden with guilt and wrath.

Gimli advanced, halting at the lowest step. Legolas followed and stood close behind him.

“Speak for me, servant.” He made his voice sound bored.

A wise choice, Gimli acknowledged to himself, grudging. The elf had a particular skill for insulting dwarves, whether he willed it or no.

“Greetings, lord Mayor, from Legolas, son of Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.” Gimli bowed low. He would not name himself before his kin. To them, he was as one dead until his term had passed. He must efface himself as much as he could, serving as a mouthpiece for his master and no more. “Rumor has reached my ears that the wizard is within the mountain. I desire speech with him over a matter of the utmost urgency. I would proceed within to seek him—” it was as mild a request as he could dare make it, considering the source— “or failing that, I would have word sent to him that I wait without and desire his counsel.”

“What matter is so pressing it prompts you to dare ask admission to Erebor, son of Thranduil?” Dori was practically vibrating with anger, but Gimli knew he dare not speak his wrath openly, lest the supplies of food and medicine be halted.

Still, his question broached a delicate matter: the pride of the elves. Gimli hesitated. This was rather less easy ground to negotiate. If he revealed too much, the consequences might be as terrible as they would if Dori lost his temper. He would not have Thranduil rescind his aid in a fit of pique.

Legolas spoke himself, his voice a bored drawl. “A small company of elves was taken near Dul Guldur a moon days past. A wraith, a servant of the Necromancer, left its sign upon the battleground. Mithrandir would have great interest in knowing this, I think.”

“You mean you wish him to manage the wraith for you, so you do not have to face it yourselves!”

Legolas stared daggers at Dori, the tilt of his head the very mirror of his father. “I remember you, dwarf, with spider silk matted in your beard. You were lucky elves came to pluck you from the webs of Ungoliant’s spawn.” He let his mouth curl in a faint, contemptuous smile. “Wraiths are a simple matter for wizards, as spiders and orcs are for elves… and dragons for men, it would seem.”

Gimli closed his eyes and exhaled slowly as Dori’s face purpled with fury. His own fists were clenched, knuckles white; this haughty arrogance was all too real. Despite Legolas’s forbearance with him, he feared the elf’s speech, and his contempt, were honest.

“No elf will ever be let pass my gate to venture within the halls of the king under the mountain.” When he spoke, Dori was master of himself again. His voice was flat, all emotion absent. “Your may find an inn and wait, if you will-- if any will have you. Your news will be carried to the wizard, who may ignore it or not, as he sees fit.” His gaze seemed to touch Gimli for a split instant before he steeled himself to look away. 

“See that you deliver the message at once.” Though Dori had dismissed them, Legolas managed to sound as if he were the one terminating the interview. “Come, servant.” Again he snapped his fingers, whirling on his heel to leave. Gimli trotted in his wake, seething with all the insults he wanted to shout at the elf.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some insults are too great to be borne without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, not much response to the last part so I'm assuming readers pretty much hate my Legolas now, LOL! Maybe this bit will do ya better.

Gimli was forced to swallow his distress and show a calm face as they went to the marketplace, where weapons were on sale for those with enough coin-- though after one look at the elf, the merchants quadrupled the price of any item Gimli examined. He had to content himself with buying only the most basic supplies; more substantial purchases were out of the question. Many dwarves would not acknowledge him at all. 

Gimli could not blame them; the elf's words to Dori would doubtless go down in legend. Perhaps his consideration for Gimli was only that of a curator after all.

Bitter thoughts matched bitter bargains, as dwarf after dwarf offered little courtesy to the lost one. Fortunately, Gimli finally wandered past an aging dwarf sitting before a stall of armor, Niði, whom he had known during his childhood in the Ered Luin. The dwarf wore a frame that held thick glass lenses before his eyes; he adjusted them and gave Gimli a narrow look, then reached to his own back and pulled out the weapon he wore.

“I have watched you shop your way around the market, and I see what you need. Take my father’s axe for your own, lost one,” Niði told Gimli, breaking entirely with protocol. He ignored the elf completely, his voice gruff, handing Gimli his own weapon. The axe had a single heavy head with a wicked, well-honed curve. It was well-balanced and strong, formed so it might be used either for cutting or for grappling away an opponent’s weapon. “I will accept no payment. I am grateful to the lost one for the bread in my grandson’s belly.”

“Your kindness is as welcome as it is unlooked for. The lost one will remember you and your family on the day he is found.” Gimli vowed as he accepted the gift. To refuse would be to insult a generous heart and shame it in its pride. “On that day, you will be repaid seven times over.”

The old dwarf flicked his fingers in silent dismissal, but Gimli knew he was pleased. Likely he would not live to see the day of Gimli’s manumission, but Gimli took silent oath to find his family and give them all the wealth it was in his power to bestow.

The elf made no comment upon this interchange, but his fair face looked troubled, a frown lingering between his brows. He let Gimli carry the axe over his shoulder and spoke no word of hiding it.

That proved to be the best moment of the day. By the time they had bought tobacco, cram, and coffee, Gimli winced at the lightness in his purse. He had been warned there were those who resented being helped, but he had not expected to experience such cold treatment from his own kin. Yet when he spoke for the elf he was treated as one, even by dwarves who had no personal quarrel with him.

One group of young dwarves stayed near them as they shopped, just far enough back that Gimli could not hear them well. They wore the distinctive sigils of the Iron Hills embossed on their armor. Gimli kept a wary eye on them. Many among the younger generation had strongly favored complete rejection of both Bard's claim and Thranduil’s terms, desiring instead to return to their old home with all the treasure they could carry-- Gimli had, in their eyes, prevented them from claiming a significant sum in gold. These had the look of that sort. They spoke loudly and in Westron, for they wished to be understood by all, and the expressions on their faces as they gazed at Gimli held no mercy. 

The elf was aware of them as well. Waiting to be attacked by spiders, weaponless and dependent on Legolas for protection, Gimli had swiftly learned to read the signs of battle-readiness in his companion. Legolas was ready to draw knives and fight, should his hand be forced. From the tightness in the elf’s face when the dwarves’ voices fell below Gimli's hearing, he could hear the words Gimli could not. 

Their purchases complete, they found Dori's prediction true: it proved difficult to find a place to sleep. At last Legolas gave up entering establishments on his own behalf and sent Gimli in alone to barter for lodging. He eventually secured a room for them in an inn with a human proprietor.

Gimli could tell Legolas was not in a good temper when they went to their floor, his jaw set with frustration. Gimli knew he must be annoyed with his failure to obtain entry to the mountain, his impatience over his lost kin, and the delay in reaching the wizard. 

Gimli was in no cheerful mood himself. He had heard himself named the elf’s pet no fewer than twenty times as they sought lodging, his livery and bearing mocked both by men who did not understand and dwarves who should have known better. Though he had heard some speak of him with awe and gratitude, they were few. He had heard other words as well, less kind even than ‘pet.’

“Will Dori send word to the wizard promptly?” Legolas fumed. “We must return to his house soon to see if messages are waiting.”

“I cannot say.” Dori had been angry enough to delay delivery of the message, Gimli judged, but the news they bore was such that surely no dwarf would ignore it as unimportant.

Legolas scowled and flung himself onto the room’s single, narrow bed. He glared up at the low ceiling. “Will you go out and bring back food for us?”

This was rather different than giving an order, which Legolas had done only before dwarves, and the request had the virtue of necessity. Gimli stalked to the common room, where he ordered stew, bread, and ale for his master. The barkeep was human, originally from Laketown to judge by his accent. The man looked at him, curious.

“You seem more like an elf than a dwarf, wearing silks on your back and perfume in your beard! Does the elf use you as his catamite?”

Gimli bared his teeth, snarling, and gave no answer. Such words were an inevitable product of gossip and malice, but it made them no easier to hear, especially when flung directly in his face. He snatched the tray of food and stamped away with it, throwing it down on the rickety table inside their room. 

“I will go out,” he growled.

“Will you stay close at hand? You will be wanted when the wizard comes.” Legolas rose and examined the tray. “I hope you do not mean to drink yourself into a stupor.” He frowned. “You have spilled the stew.”

“Then fetch your own food next time!” Gimli’s fists clenched. He needed a fight-- no, a brawl, and he clung to his temper by only the thinnest of margins. It did not help that the elf was right.

Legolas considered him, his lips thinning to a narrow line. “You mean to do battle to avenge yourself against the insults I heard as we walked through the city. We need no trouble of this kind. If you cannot promise me you will not fight, I would prefer you remain here.” He sat down to mop up the spilled stew with bits of bread. 

A suggestion, not a command-- yet Gimli was too far gone to grow calm. “Will you fight me?” Adrenaline flooded his system. He had to purge it somehow.

“I will not.”

"Then if I may not go out, I must calm myself the best way I can!" Gimli snarled, wrenching his gaze from the elf and finding the bed lying unrumpled. He kicked over the frame, then grasped the mattress and bolster, wrapping them into a rough roll and flinging it against the rockwork wall. He struck out with all the force and fury within him, battering the bedding as if it were the faces of those who had mocked him in the street. As if it were Thranduil, who had taken his life and replaced it with slavery. 

As if it were those who called him the elf’s whore.

The elf sat silent, watchful, but did not intervene for long minutes, not until Gimli had spent his rage.

“That is enough,” Legolas said at length, when the room was thick with feathers from the ripped ticking and Gimli’s blows began to shiver the wall, making dust and mortar fall. He came and caught Gimli’s arm, pulling him back from his violence.

Gimli struck at him, a sob caught in his throat, but all the strength flowed out of his limbs and he slumped to the floor, his eyes wet, humiliated that he could show such weakness before this elf, this son of Thranduil the Heartless.

Legolas examined his hands, frowning at the bruised and bloody knuckles, but made no condemnation, merely pulling a salve from his pack and tending the hurts. When Gimli had calmed, the elf rang for a chambermaid. “Bring new bedding and brooms to sweep away these feathers. Then have another meal sent up. Enough for two, with a pitcher of the best ale you have.” Little haughtiness remained in him, only quiet command. 

“You need food and rest.” Legolas said when she departed, making no judgment on Gimli's outburst. “Sit and eat with me?” He brushed feathers from the seats of the chairs and directed Gimli to one. 

Maids entered with brooms and bedding, tidying the room swiftly. They made the bed anew and laid out a meal for Gimli and the elf to replace the one the feathers had spoiled. Then Legolas dismissed them and sat across from him, serving the stew for them both and dividing the loaf. He poured ale and pushed a mug across the table, leaving it within reach of Gimli’s hand. 

“What are you, that you speak with such contempt to Dori, yet you will serve me food with your own hands?” Gimli’s voice felt rough and hot, as if he had gargled gravel. He wondered how loudly he had roared during his anguished frenzy. It was a wonder they had not been cast out into the street.

“I am yet my father’s son, it seems. It is hard to change so much overnight. But I have my own mind.” Legolas’s eyes dimmed. He looked at his stew, lifting the spoon and regarding it as if marvels lay within its bowl. “I might ask what are these people who speak of you so cruelly when you have sacrificed your freedom and family to feed them?”

“I was the king’s dwarf. Or so I thought, until my king gave himself over to gold and forgot to value his people.” Gimli took a mouthful of ale. It stung going down, but he felt better afterward.

Legolas looked at him quietly. “When the year is done and the aid given so my father may not withhold it, I will let you leave me. Then you can return to your people.”

“That I will not do.” The rest of his anger abandoned Gimli, leaving him hollow and weary. “I have given my oath, and I will honor it. If I do not, what am I? The words my people mutter may as well be true. If I broke my oath, I would not be able to return to my home; I would not be accepted by any of my kin. Not even my sire would see my face.” He struck the table with his fist. “We are stuck with one another, elf, for good or ill.” He glowered at Legolas.

“Then let us make the best of it.” Legolas met his gaze firmly. “I warned you I must be every inch Thranduil’s son when we are in company with others, lest the bargain struck at such cost to you be ended before my father’s part is fulfilled.” Legolas spread his hands, helpless. “But as we journeyed in the wood, Gimli, I thought we two began to understand one another. Even before our comrades were taken, you would do as I asked, and you began to put yourself before the company and draw the spiders to yourself, trusting I would not let you fall.” 

Legolas leaned forward across the table, his eyes brilliant. “I spoke in anger to Dori, as I would of old. I am sorry. But I have not forgotten how I fell stunned, wounded, and roused to find you standing over me, battling orcs-- this after I told you the way to find your own path to safety! I know when I was witless in my fever, you wrapped your own cloak around me, and you dragged me behind you on a sled for many days, returning to the king who holds you chattel. A false heart in a being of faithless nature would not treat the son of his captor so. Only a soul of honor would. 

“Thus I brought you forth with me rather than leave you to my father, who made it well-known he would gladly see you dead and off his hands. For while I have much yet to learn of dwarves, I am not my father, and though I may struggle to find my way, I am no more faithless or false at heart than you have shown yourself to be.” 

Gimli could not breathe for a moment, transfixed by those intense blue eyes with their flecks of gold. Some great thing shivered within his heart: wonder, that an elf would speak so to a dwarf. Pleasure, that his worth was known and esteemed. Amazement, that in his jailor he found kindness and honor where he had looked for none. ....Sorrow, that the elf showed this better side of himself only to Gimli and not to his kin.

“Aye,” he muttered at last, and looked aside, finding the fine axe he had been given and lifting it to occupy his nervous hands, fingering the runes etched on its blade: spells of strength and returning. There were those with the wit to value his choices. At least the elf was trying.

Yes, he was; at times Gimli found him very trying.

Gimli huffed a humorless chuckle. “You seem much as you say, and in one thing you are surely right: the rift between our people is so great I think it cannot be wholly bridged in a moon’s time.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It is hard for me that many of my kin do not value my sacrifice, and to hear they think--” Gimli flushed hot red all the way to his ears. But the elf already knew; he had heard the words himself. "It is the way I am dressed and perfumed. Among my people and men alike, servants and slaves wear rough homespun. But silks and scents mark a favored courtesan."

“I regret you are made to bear such a burden.” Legolas said sadly. "Gimli, elves may be guilty of many sins, but we would never mistreat a servant so, nor would we wish it." 

"I know that is true of you, at least." Gimli felt himself drooping, fatigue and sadness threatening to overwhelm him. He was far too weary to continue their talk.

Legolas saw it and was kind. “Eat, Gimli. Then we will rest.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli depart from Dale and journey toward Dol Guldur with Gandalf-- and a mysterious young friend.

Word came in the morning in the form of the wizard himself, who nearly battered down their door with his staff.

Legolas pulled it open, neatly dodging a final blow. Gandalf glowered in, then straightened, his expression smoothing. “At last. I have searched half the inns in this accursed town, for Dori had no idea where you were lodging. Ah, you have Gimli with you!” He broke into a broad smile. “That is good news indeed. They might have told me.” His mood altered in a flash. “Up with you, Gimli. We cannot waste a minute more.”

Gimli scrambled up and hurried to ready his pack. Legolas had not slept, sitting by the window and gazing out at the stars. He was ready to leave as soon as he slung his bow over his back. Despite his slow start, Gimli took but a little longer.

“I want you to meet my traveling companion.” The wizard gestured grandly to one side, where a human male stood. “This lad is called Strider. He has lived nearly all his days with the elves in Rivendell. I am showing him the world.” 

Gimli was no seasoned judge of things, but he thought the man a youth, just come of age, perhaps of twenty winters. His legs were long enough to merit his name and more. His beard was sparse and his body lean as though he did not eat enough; he had yet to thicken through the chest as a strong man should. Gimli thought him sad, as if some terrible burden of sorrow or dread weighed on his young shoulders.

“Well met.” The young man had a pleasant voice, if a little high, and greeted Gimli politely with a deep bow. “At your service, master dwarf.”

“I may not offer you mine,” Gimli told him with regret, bowing low. “It is spoken for. But I thank you.”

“Well met! A star shines on the hour of our meeting.” The young man reached to clasp hands with Legolas, his manner painfully polite. Legolas answered in kind, smiling. 

Gimli rolled his eyes. 

The wizard hustled them down the stair and out into the street, walking swiftly enough Gimli was forced to trot to keep up. Chastened by Tharkûn’s presence, the dwarves in the street held their tongues, offering Gimli no rudeness, not even in hand-speech.

“I have not been within the mountain, Gimli-- few are granted entry now. But I have seen your father and delivered your message. He was glad to have it, and it eased his mind,” Gandalf reported. "Your family is well, though they are concerned for their king.”

He turned his attention to Legolas. “The news Dori reported you bring disturbs me greatly, I confess.” Mithrandir spoke quietly, including Gimli with a look. “Are you sure there was a wraith?”

“I saw no wraith, and none followed us. Yet the trees and the land cowered in terror, and my people were taken without a sound.” Legolas bowed his head. “I could feel a shadow of its evil pressing on my mind as we stood upon the hilltop. There is deep darkness in Dol Guldur. Not so much as before, perhaps, but it is growing again.” He hesitated, and his voice grew bitter. “My father fears the Necromancer. He would not send troops to search the keep.”

Mithrandir’s mouth pinched tightly. “He has reason enough to fear, I suppose. Thranduil often seems cruel to others, though he chooses his actions for the protection of as many of his people as he can. And yet….” He shook his bushy beard. “We four shall go and see what has settled there, and if your people are yet alive, I will get them out.”

Legolas brightened, then his eyes dimmed again. “I doubt any survived the initial attack, but you comfort me.” 

“You and Strider must buy more arrows in Esgaroth,” Gandalf told him. “Carry as many as you can. They will be needed.”

*****

Gimli was relieved to depart from Laketown and don his dwarvish clothing once more. Strider frowned, seeming puzzled by the change. The lad was a questioner, asking so politely Gimli could hardly decline to answer, but wanting to know so much the dwarf’s tongue soon wearied of talking as he explained his clothing, the meaning of the engravings upon his axe, and a thousand other things the young man wanted to know.

“Forgive me,” Strider bowed. “But I am told I must learn all I can of Middle Earth and its peoples, that I may speak wisely should I ever need their aid.” He looked hunted, a little desperate, but Mithrandir nodded approval. 

“Am I the first dwarf you have journeyed with?” Gimli turned the tables and began to question the man. He looked longingly to the shore of the River Running; he would much prefer his feet to riding in a boat. 

“You are, though I have observed dwarves who visited Lord Elrond’s land, and I learned much lore from the scrolls in Rivendell.” He smiled at Gimli, eyes lit with some amusing memory. “Yet you are not quite what I expected.”

“It stands to reason you would not form proper expectations of a dwarf from the lore of elves.” Gimli knew his voice was dry.

“That is reasonable. And yet you do not seem the sort who would frolic naked in the fountain of Rían beneath the noonday sun, as Thorin and his companions chose to do. Lord Elrond was entirely put out of countenance.”

Gimli laughed; his father had said nothing of such a thing! No doubt Thorin would have had them bathe thus just to goad his host. “You have not yet tested me on a hot summer’s day. Yet I would not frolic unclad in an elf-lord’s fountain without a considerable number of like-minded companions-- and a vast amount of ale.”

“Excessive consumption of wine was certainly a factor.” Young Strider smiled, warmth in his eyes, and Gimli found himself smiling back. He liked this young human in spite of himself. 

“You are in service to the elf.” Strider’s tone questioned, very delicate.

“Aye.” Gimli scowled anew. “His father demanded a forfeit of my king, and I agreed to pay it for my people. I was given to him for seventy years and seven. Only after that time may I return to my home and family.”

“I see. An unlikely pair of companions.”

“That we are. But perhaps you should not speak so boldly, traveling as you do with the wizard.” Gimli lifted a brow. “I have told you much of myself. What has brought you here?”

“The death of my mother, and the revelation I am a legacy.” Bitterness shadowed the youth’s mouth, yet he tried to pass it off with a smile. “Imagine my surprise that I was not born Estel of the Dúnedain as I had believed all my life, but that I am in fact a stranger of another name entirely, born of a line of fallen kings, and I have a great destiny that lies before me.”

“Aye, well.” Gimli coughed. “That is a troublesome conundrum indeed. I would observe that it is a man’s right to make his own destiny, not to allow others to choose it for him.”

“Lord Elrond counsels my fate may not be so easily avoided.”

“Yet I have heard it said fate often spares an undoomed man, when his courage is strong.” 

“If by that you mean I may be spared from death until judgment falls upon my actions, I must confess judgment was passed on my line long ago, for its greatest failing.” Strider’s clear gray eyes darkened. 

Gimli sighed. This one had been too long among the elves. “You are young yet. Put steel in your courage, do what is right, and let fate and doom care for themselves.”

“That is wisdom.” Strider smiled again, lighter this time, and reached to clasp Gimli’s hand. “I would call you friend, master dwarf, if you are willing.”

“Aye, laddie, that I am.” Gimli clasped his hand, aware of Mithrandir watching intently while pretending not to, puffing slowly at his pipe. 

“We must leave the barge before morning, for the river soon turns away from the East Bight,” Legolas called from the stern of their barge. 

“We will disembark at midnight, then.” The wizard seemed to have no eagerness for the prospect, gazing afar with his brows drawn down. “Afterward, we proceed to Dol Guldur on foot.”

Legolas too was troubled, and had no smiles or song to offer. He came to Gandalf and sat down beside him. Gimli listened to them while honing his axe. “I do not like to re-enter my father’s realm thus, so soon after departing without his leave, but I think we will not meet any of my people.”

“I think you are right.” Gandalf raised his voice. “Strider, come here and I will tell you more of the lore of the nazgûl, for their fate is closely entwined with your own lineage.”

Strider gave Gimli a brief, long-suffering glance and obeyed.

“That lad does not know whether he be man or boy,” Gimli remarked later to the elf, keeping his voice low. “And the wizard’s orders do not help.”

Legolas shrugged. “For my part, I wonder at the lineage he mentions; he will not say more of it. As for your observation, Mithrandir is so old all of us seem children in his view.”

“Is he indeed?” Gimli raised a brow. “He is quite an old man, surely, but no human may rival an elf for long life.”

Legolas blinked at Gimli. “Old he is, but man he is not. He came from across the sea, an emissary of the Valar, when the world was yet young.”

“Durin's beard.” Gimli gave the wizard a thoughtful look. “He has not the look of elves.”

“No,” Legolas agreed. “But looks may deceive.”

“Indeed.” Gimli wondered if they were suddenly speaking of something entirely other than the wizard. “I suppose it is good to know he is somewhat more than I expected, if we go to face a wraith.”

“Have you faced a wraith before?” Legolas asked, his eyes clouded with sudden worry.

“In fact, I have not,” Gimli confessed. “The troll we fought in the wood was the worst beast I have yet to encounter. But I received my training from master axemen among my kin in the Ered Luin, and was examined in battlecraft and passed by Dwalin when I arrived in Erebor, to mark my coming of age. It was late, but the affair with the dragon threw all of dwarven affairs into chaos.” He patted his axe. “Dwalin is a fierce and cunning fighter. He would not have given me leave to go to war if I were not ready.”

“You may find your readiness sorely tested if we find a wraith waiting for us in the wood.” Legolas turned his face south. “And I believe we will. Mithrandir fears there may be more than one at Dol Guldur-- or even worse than wraiths.”

“Then I should go with Strider and learn at the feet of the wizard.” He got up and fitted deed to word, listening to matters of history and lore until he could stand it no longer.

“But how may they be fought?” He demanded.

“It is said no man may kill their leader, and it is hard to kill or harm any of them at all. Perhaps it is fortunate not all of us are men.” Mithrandir smiled kindly upon Strider to soften his words. “But beware, dwarf. To strike a wraith with your axe would destroy the blade beyond saving. They are not easily injured by man, dwarf or elf. No,” he sighed. “Leave the wraith to me-- or wraiths, if more than one come. I will need the three of you to handle all of the orcs and trolls and goblins and wargs while I fight our darkest enemy alone.”

“Is that all?” Gimli scoffed. “A challenge would be welcome, Tharkûn! Do not keep all the fun for yourself.”

Strider laughed, then silenced himself, giving the wizard a sheepish look. 

“Do not fear to laugh. It will hearten you before we go into battle.” He gave all of them a stern look. “And all these names… they will confuse any others we may meet. Call me Gandalf, so neither elves nor dwarves need feel slighted by having the other race’s name chosen ahead of its own. That,” he told Strider smugly, “Is diplomacy. Mark it well, my boy.” 

Gimli pondered what little useful lore he had learned as they floated through the night, and was still considering as they disembarked from the boat in the small hours. He was glad to leave the teetering gangplank and set his boots upon solid soil once more. “I am prepared to fight anything, if I may keep my feet upon the ground.”

“The elf will not fear the wraith.” Strider stepped near Gimli, and together they watched Legolas and Gandalf move forward, choosing their path. “But the wizard says you and I will fear it, whether we would or no.”

Gimli scowled. “Then stand firm and face your fear.” He hoped he could live up to his own brave words. “And if you master it, I shall share my pipe with you when we come through our fear to the other side!”

“Fear serves the wraiths.” Gandalf had sharp ears, curse him. “The dwarf is right. Master yourselves and do not let your fear master you. It is to be endured, not obeyed. Giving in to fear is always worse than facing your adversary, no matter how terrible he may be, for it gives your opponent power.”

“Share your pipe?” Legolas picked up the thread when the wizard had finished. “We elves do not smoke." 

"I have never tried it, but I should like to.” Aragorn brightened. "I would like to learn to blow smoke rings to rival the wizard's!"

“Never smoked? We shall try it together, then. A grown dwarf-- or man-- needs a smoke now and then!” Gimli blustered. “Though not too much, especially at first.”

So the hours passed in pleasant talk until the eaves of the wood drew near, the darkness of the gnarled and sickened trees oppressing them even from afar. 

Gandalf gestured them to silence when they stood at the fringe of the forest. “Lead us by the secret ways of your people, Legolas.”

“There will be spiders,” Gimli warned Strider. 

“Spiders?” The lad looked unimpressed. “Those are easily dealt with.”

“Aye, but these are spiders the size of ponies.” He chuckled grimly at Strider’s skeptical look. “I’ll let you squash the first one all by yourself, if you like.” 

Though Gimli and Strider kept up a light-hearted chatter as they pierced deeper into the wood, the wizard grew quiet. Legolas likewise was watchful, standing guard through the long, dark nights.

“He is troubled.” Strider noticed Gimli’s gaze lingering on the elf. 

“Aye.” Gimli knew not how to feel; he should not be dismayed by the elf’s distress, yet he felt protective, and he thought he understood. “He lost kinsmen to this wraith.” 

“It is more than that, I think.” Strider’s grey eyes were steady as he watched the elf. “I would ask what troubles him, yet I think my questions would be unwelcome.”

“As would mine, then.” Gimli muttered, and Strider lifted one brow ever so slightly. 

“Perhaps so, but who else might ask?”

Gimli brooded on the thought until the man and the wizard lay abed, then went to the elf. He moved himself downwind and sat, scowling, then prepared his pipe and lit it. 

Legolas turned his gaze to Gimli, watching him smoke. “Smoking is a strange habit.”

“The wizard likes it well enough.”

“May I try?” Legolas reached as though to take the pipe.

If the polite request seemed odd coming from one who owned him, Gimli appreciated it nonetheless. 

“Careful not to spill,” he warned, keeping the thing level as he passed it. Legolas took a puff, wrinkling his face and frowning down, then released the smoke with a cough.

“It is not to my taste, I think.”

“More for me, then.” Gimli took the pipe back. “The woods are quiet tonight.”

“The wizard’s aura holds the spiders at bay.” 

“Must I pry if I want to learn what troubles you?” Gimli exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke and watched it blow away. “You mourn your companions, that I know.”

“It is more than that.” Legolas looked into the wood. “I think of the woods, and of my father.”

“Ah.” Gimli looked out into the forest. A ghost of moonlight caught on the boles and branches, which seemed to seethe as they moved with the wind, almost like worms working carrion. 

“Once this wood was called Greenwood the Great. Now all but my father’s folk call it _Taur-nu-Fuin_ or _Taur-e-Ndaedelos_ : The Forest of Darkness. The Forest of Great Fear. Mirkwood, it is named by men.” Legolas swallowed hard. “My father's silvan elves have sat in our caverns and patrolled our paths and let our boundaries close in about us as the evil of the land grew greater than we would risk. A friend once told me we could not afford to remain within our sheltered world and let Middle Earth burn around us. I have resisted the truth of her words too long. Now my people are taken by evil. I behold this forest I have loved as if for the first time, and at last I see it clearly.” 

He raised his eyes to Gimli. “I should have left my father’s halls long centuries ago, but I let myself stay and turned a blind eye to the decay around me. The woods are sick, and it may be that only fire can cleanse them: only from ashes of war will peace and beauty grow anew. This sickness spreads. It must be banished, no matter the cost.”

“Aye.” Gimli took comfort in the heat of the smoke inside his lungs.

Legolas straightened himself, his eyes searching Gimli’s. “You have pledged friendship to Strider,” he said softly. “The hatred between our people is a symptom of the sickness, and I would no longer be under any part of its spell. Would you be my friend as well, Gimli?”

Gimli hesitated. His heart told him to agree, but there was the indenture between them, and Legolas still held power over his fate. “I no longer count you among my bitter enemies.”

“It is my father’s bargain that holds you back.” Legolas rose, his hand clenching to a fist. “My father, who grows as twisted as this accursed and pitiable thing, this suffering tree.” He laid his head on the glistening bark of a gnarled and withering oak, then pulled it away, curling his lip at the foul residue left on his skin. “All he remembers of love is death and pain. He tells himself his choices protect our people. But they grow ever worse, and his grief makes him cruel. When there are no other, weaker targets left to absorb the darkness, his realm will fall.”

He turned, sudden, and studied Gimli, considering. “You said you could not return to your people. If I renounce my father’s bargain and free you from my service, you would return to his halls to serve out your term.” He spoke slowly, but as one who knew the truth of his words. 

“It is not within your power to free me from your father’s contract,” Gimli nodded. “I am honor-bound.”

“How can we fight the darkness when even honor may be turned to evil?” The elf drove his fist against the trunk, shivering the tree and bringing down a cascade of withered leaves. Gimli realized Legolas was just as upset as he had been in Dale, when he had to use his fists or go mad. 

“Elf.” Gimli stood, setting aside his pipe. “Calm yourself now.”

“I will return in the morning.” Legolas stood tall. In his grief he seemed as regal and terrible as Thranduil, half his face gilded by the light of the fire. “There are spiders to kill.”

He leaped and caught a low-hanging bough, then vanished into the darkness before Gimli could stop him. After a long moment Gimli returned to the fire with a sigh, tapping out the ash of his pipe before stowing it in his pack.

“Do not worry. Legolas will return safely.” Gandalf lifted the brim of his hat and spoke quietly, his eyes gleaming up from where he lay. “He will not wander far. You spoke well, Gimli. I am proud of you.”

“I can offer no true friendship to one I am bound to serve.” Gimli muttered.

“He is bound as well. He will not let you go back to his father,” Gandalf observed. “He respects you. He begins to like you.”

Gimli growled, baring his teeth at the wizard, but Gandalf only laughed. “You begin to like him, too. Admit it, and things will be easier. Strider, stand watch until the elf returns.” He let the brim of his hat fall back over his face and did not move again. 

Gimli lay down with a huff and wrapped himself in his blankets to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf and his companions enter Dol Guldur in search of survivors from Legolas's hunting party. 
> 
> Warning: This chapter includes disturbing content. Trigger warnings for battle, violence, gore, brief but explicit sexual imagery involving dubious consent, and euthanasia.

In the morning, Gimli woke to find Legolas had returned. He rose in relief to find the elf and Strider bent over the ground together, scratching rough maps with a bit of twig. “I do not like the layout of the keep,” Strider fretted, scowling at the messy earth in front of him. “Once we have crossed the bridge, it may be held against our return, and there is no other way to leave at speed. Escape will not be easy.”

“It gives me hope to know Legolas saw evidence of occupation from afar. The magic there is not as strong as it once was.” Gandalf sipped from his mug. “Before the Council banished the Necromancer, a glamour concealed the occupation of the keep from all. I do not think he has returned, though there will be some great captain there. With me along, you should be able to fight through.”

*****

They arrived at a vantage point before nightfall and climbed so they might see Dol Guldur.

Gandalf frowned, leaning on his stick, and closed his eyes as if he could see better with them shut, extending a hand. The gem in his staff waxed and glowed white. Legolas stepped between it and the keep so it might not be seen.

“Khamûl,” Gandalf muttered to himself. “A wraith indeed, Legolas. One of the nine. And aware of us already, so you need not hide my staff.”

“If he knows of our approach, why has no force attacked us?” Strider answered himself at once. “They wait for us to come to them. It is a trap. We must not go in.”

“They have prisoners. Living elves.” Legolas’s voice turned hollow. “I see Giledhel. He is in a cage, hanging from a ruined tower.”

Gandalf frowned. “Can you see if there is activity in the forges?”

Legolas stared for a long time without speaking. “I see smoke as if from cookfires, but if any forges are lit, I cannot tell it.”

“We march on the keep in the morning, regardless.” Gandalf pursed his lips. “Khamûl is less powerful by day, but he is a cunning adversary at any time. I do not know what he hopes to gain by luring us in. He knows he cannot defeat me without his master’s aid.”

“We must be cautious,” Legolas gave the keep a last, lingering gaze.

*****

They kept careful watch through the night, sheltering beneath their cloaks from sleet and bitter rain, but still no attack came.

“Khamûl is a master of illusion and trickery. Doubt your senses when he is near.” Gandalf led them toward the verge of the ravine. “The light will grow no more today; the clouds serve his bidding. Watch your step on the ice!”

They stepped onto the crumbling bridge in single file, Gandalf leading and Legolas following in the rear. Gimli put himself between Strider and the elf, watching the young lad’s back. They moved cautiously, weapons in hand and arrow on the string. Far above, Gimli thought he could hear the creak of the iron cage swaying on its chain. There was no other sound except the wind groaning through the ruins, lifting from time to time to drive dust and grit into their eyes.

The place was much larger than it had looked from afar, acres of crumbling stonework reinforced by new additions: cruel metal spikes had been set at intervals along every wall to support the ancient stone. The place twisted and turned on itself, pathways winding in and out of plazas, courtyards, tunnels and half-demolished buildings in an impenetrable maze, once elegant and fair, now a foul, reeking warren of orcs.

Despite the silence, Gimli's every nerve sang with certainty: foes lay in hiding, watching and awaiting a signal to attack. The little company climbed cautiously through the ruins, climbing many narrow, steep stairs whose treads might shatter or crumble beneath their feet without warning. No one spoke, but a shadow of terrible dread steadily grew in Gimli’s mind, and he knew the others felt it also. Strider’s hand tightened on his sword, his knuckles white, but he did not falter, pressing forward at the wizard’s heels.

Legolas too closed the gap, climbing close behind Gimli as they drew near the summit.

“Here the White Council fought the Necromancer,” Gandalf murmured as they stepped onto a lofty courtyard between weathered pillars of stone. “And there is the cage with Giledhel.” The dark-haired elf lay within, unmoving.

“He is wounded.” Legolas darted forward, and Gimli went with him.

“I will help to get your friend.” The dwarf set his hands upon the lever to hoist the cage back just as Gandalf shouted warning.

Bleak terror flooded over Gimli as a pale silhouette rose between the cage and the party, shining with sallow corpse-light: a narrow-eyed man clad in fluttering robes of deepest black that showed only his hands and face, pale and watery, insubstantial. His head was crowned with tall spikes and deep-set black eyes shone forth from a face of bare bone, gleaming with malice. The wraith seemed to ripple though there was no wind, lifting a long, sharp sword.

Legolas’s arrow flew, piercing the thing without slowing. The shaft clattered against a pillar half-visible through the wraith’s floating robes. It smiled, a terrible rictus, and Gimli froze as it stepped forth, long bony fingers reaching out to clutch at him.

Legolas leaped forward to drag him back from the wraith’s outstretched arms. As his hand settled on Gimli’s chest, the world spun away, the elf’s hand on him the only constant. It still lay on Gimli’s chest, which was bare. Gimli could not breathe or think; he was naked, decorated with golden rings through both his nipples and a chain strung between them, the elf’s leaf and antler sigil a brand carved in the flesh of his breast.

He lay spread open, and Legolas's long, slim frame nestled tightly behind his body, the elf’s body joined to his, invading Gimli’s own flesh. Legolas’s fingers dragged over Gimli’s skin. Desire burned in their wake, sizzling across his nerves. He heard his lips fall open, whimpering, and Legolas murmuring to him in Elvish, his voice languid but hot with lust. Gimli’s head tipped back against the elf’s shoulder, one long-fingered hand wrapping around Gimli’s cock, the other tugging at the chain, a brilliant flare of pleasure and pain searing through him as he was claimed, and he heard his voice again, broken and begging for the release of climax--

The vision vanished as swiftly as it had come. Disoriented and completely humiliated, Gimli lashed out to fight. He flung off the elf’s restraining arms, frantic with panic, and fell to one knee, struggling to find balance. Beside him Gandalf strode forth, brandishing his staff. The glow at its tip waxed brilliant white.

“Wargs!” Strider’s voice penetrated the haze of revulsion and confusion in Gimli’s brain. Howling and scratching echoed through the courtyard as the pack raced up the steps to join the fray.

“Up and fight, Gimli,” Legolas urged him. “Do not heed the wraith’s lies!” His own eyes were glazed and wild. Gimli’s stomach dropped, sick with horror-- had the elf shared his vision? Mahal send it was not so!

Strider moaned low in his throat, his sword drooping until its point touched the cobbles.

“Wake, son of the west!” Legolas snapped and caught his arm, his voice sharp. “Battle is on us!”

Strider faltered, shaking his head to clear his mind. Then Gandalf was back. “Stay close!” A bubble of white light sprang up around them, and Gimli felt his fear lessen swiftly, leaving only humiliation and confusion in its wake.

He snarled his rage, his fingers going white on the axe handle, and sent it scything through the skull of the leading warg even as the fletchings of Legolas’s arrow sprouted between its eyes. Its rider rolled off and its scimitar flashed in a brutal arc. Then Gimli had no more time to think. He countered with the handle of his axe and fell into the brutal rhythm of strike and defense.

The elf’s bow sang and Strider’s sword clattered against orc-armor. Gandalf chanted in a tongue Gimli did not know, his voice echoing among the stones, amplified until the vibrating echoes seemed they would bring the whole structure down. “Legolas!” he commanded.

The flying arrows stopped. Gimli could not turn to look, but he heard the creaking of the winch and the clang of iron as the cage settled on the stones. He blocked a savage blow, hooking the orc’s sword with the bit of his axe, and jerked it from his enemy’s hands.

“Gimli, help me,” Legolas called, sharp with urgency.

Gimli spun, kicking the orc backward. It stumbled between two pillars and toppled over the edge, screaming.

“Hold them a moment, laddie!” Gimli called to Strider. He reversed the swing of his axe and leaped over to the cage, cleaving the lock with a quick chop, then shoved away from it, returning to support the boy, who intercepted a roundhouse swing on the edge of his sword and caught a second orc in the shoulder with the dagger in his left hand, shoving it away. Legolas arose with Giledhel cradled in his arms.

“Make for the bridge and stay close.” Gandalf pushed between them, swinging his staff like a pole-arm. Wherever it touched, foes shrieked and fell away. They pushed down the stair, descending on the throng of orcs like an avalanche, sending them flying to every side. “The wraith could return at any minute!” the wizard panted. “Pray the others do not come!”

There was no time to think. They could only battle their way through hordes of orcs, Gimli’s axe and Strider’s sword cleaving the path, Gandalf finishing any who made it through. Legolas could not fight while carrying Giledhel, but he dodged blades, spinning and dancing lightly for all his burden. An arrow bounced off Gimli’s armor, clattering away.

“Their archers have found us!” Gimli redoubled his efforts, his arms beginning to burn from the strain. They ducked into a building that seemed composed of cells, iron bars and chains hanging broken and rusted everywhere. Goblins poured in after them, screaming and hooting. 

“This way,” Gandalf ordered, his staff flaring with light to guide them forward through the dungeon.

“We will find the bridge held against us,” Strider warned, grim, a spatter of orc blood across his face. They clattered down a narrow spiral stair, cutting through the heart of the city to reach the bridge level.

When they could go no further inside, Gimli cleaved the hinges of iron-shod doors and they shoved them aside, escaping again into light. They neared the bridge, shouting hordes of orcs scaling the sheer walls to catch them, choking the stairs and pouring out of windows. 

When they emerged from the city wall, barely ahead of an army, the wraith awaited on the bridge’s long span, insubstantial but terrible, its robes floating.

“Pitiable, weak things.” The wraith swung its unholy gaze between them. “What hope have such as you against the power in the east, wizard? Can you truly gather no better allies than a beardless boy, the unwanted outcast of a faded glory, and a stunted slave?” Its voice hissed and rasped, rising to screech beyond the audible, sending needles of pain through Gimli’s skull.

“Go back to the void!” Gandalf commanded, raising his staff, but Strider did not wait. He snarled, pressing forward to attack. The wraith swung, their swords clashing so hard sparks soared in fading arcs.

“Bravely done!” Gandalf shouted.

Not to be outclassed, Gimli rolled forward, swiping at the thing’s ankles as Strider renewed his attack. The wraith rippled and vanished, reappearing behind them, and swung again before they could re-set. Gandalf lifted his staff with a great shout. White light exploded outward, leaving purple halos at the edges of everything Gimli looked on. When it receded, the wraith had vanished.

They pressed across the bridge and into the wood, but no orcs followed.

“We were allowed to go too easily,” Strider gasped. “The wraith toys with us.”

“Keep moving.” Gandalf hustled them a mile or more down the crumbling path until Legolas stopped, setting down his precious burden.

“We can go no further,” he said, his voice eerie calm. “Giledhel is near death.”

“Come, Strider, and help me.” Gandalf ordered as Gimli lowered his axe, winded and panting for breath.

Giledhel stared up at the gray sky, unseeing. His slender form was wasted and scarred with terrible wounds, and he gave no response to Legolas. Gandalf laid his hand upon the elf’s forehead, murmuring beneath his breath.

Strider scrambled to open his pack, but the wizard reached to stop him. “You are skilled, but I fear this is a hurt beyond the reach of herbs,” Gandalf passed his hand over his eyes, his face twisting in pain. “He has already given up his _fëa_. Khamûl left him breathing to draw us in, but Giledhel is with Mandos.” He looked up to Legolas, his eyes gentle with grief.

“We can do nothing. His body is too badly damaged to survive for much longer. Legolas, will you grant him mercy?”

The elf drew a slow shuddering breath and nodded, bringing out one of his white knives and a whetting stone. The stone passed across the blade with a silky whisper.

“Let us give them room.” Gandalf put his hand behind Gimli’s shoulder, leading him and Strider a few steps away.

“You are right, of course," he gold Strider. "Our escape was all too easy. I do not know the wraith’s purpose in letting us escape so readily. I can only guess he hoped to draw more rewarding prey-- perhaps Thranduil himself, without a wizard to save him. But he will have done his best to harm our party through the visions you were sent. What were they?” He turned his anxious gaze to Strider. “Yours in particular I would know.”

“I stood before a vast army of men, ranged against every imaginable sort of orc or troll or foul servant of Mordor, but all my commands went awry. Every man I ordered forth died, and I knew when the last man passed darkness would fall, and the light would never return.” Strider spoke reluctantly, his voice low. “It would be my fault freedom and joy would be lost, never to be found again while this world lasts.”

Gandalf relaxed. “It is a worry plucked from your own mind, no worse. For a moment I almost feared-- but no.” He turned his gaze to Gimli. “And yours, my good dwarf?”

Gimli shuddered, casting about in desperation for a way to express his thought without speaking a lie. He would not reveal everything he had experienced, not with the elf at hand. Perhaps never. “I saw myself a conquered slave, abased and defiled, craving what was done to break me,” he muttered at last. “Corrupted and lost, no longer fit to call myself a dwarf.”

It seemed enough. Gandalf’s keen eyes rested on him for a long moment, then the wizard nodded. “A less likely fate for you I cannot imagine. Take heart, Gimli.”

Gimli swallowed hard and nodded.

“And I saw myself an accursed thing, a despoiler and a doer of rapine,” the elf spoke as he arose from the body of Giledhel, his voice terrible, his eyes fixed on the horizon where Dol Guldur loomed, dark and desolate. He held his knife, wiping it clean carefully with a bloodstained cloth. “Dark and vile, worse by far than my father, who would only kill to destroy what is given into his care.”

Gimli turned his face aside to hide his grimace. Cursed be the day of his birth!

Gandalf’s look darted between them, worry in his eyes.

“Do not dwell on these visions too much,” he advised. “The wraith is clever, but he does not know all. The images you saw were chosen to target your fears and turn your strength to weakness. The wraith would poison our minds and divide us if it could, but its dark magic can only mock. It cannot make.”

Wordless, Legolas sheathed his knife and turned away to drape his cloak over Giledhel’s body.

“And you, Gandalf. What did you see?” Gimli would not let the wizard escape unscathed.

Gandalf was silent for a long moment. “I saw the only enemy who has ever defeated me: a great eye ringed with shadow and flame.” He shook himself from his reverie. “But he was not there, or we would not have escaped. Come. We must be far from here by nightfall.”

He led them west, the swiftest way out of the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fëa_ : Spirit or soul


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli's company travels to edge of the Golden Wood, and Legolas will not leave well enough alone.

Legolas and Gimli each said little as they journeyed west. The elf kept himself well apart from Gimli, who was more than pleased to do the same. It left Strider somewhat forlorn; he was forced to converse with the wizard if he would have talk around the campfire at night.

Gandalf was patient with the lad, deconstructing the encounter with endless rounds of tactical analysis. They discussed how best to confront a wraith (not at all, if it could be avoided), how to thwart its attacks (with fire or light), the hazards of its weapons and spells (often too terrible to contemplate), and what might be done to heal the damage they dealt (far too little). Strider also gathered any useful herbs he found as they marched.

“He has great skill as a healer,” Gandalf explained to Gimli, trying to engage him in their conversation one night after they had traveled beyond the eaves of the wood. “Lord Elrond trained you, didn’t he, my boy?”

“He did,” Strider said, setting herbs to dry on a stone propped near the fire. “I found the athelas you spoke of, Gandalf.”

“Athelas?” Gimli brightened and straightened up. “Give me a twig of that, lad.” He put it between his teeth and rolled it between his lips. Its sweet, clean scent rose to his nostrils, easing the cloud of horror that had lain over Gimli ever since the wraith attacked in Dol Guldur. “That’s better.”

“It is a sovereign remedy against the Black Breath,” Strider agreed.

“Wraithspell, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Dwarvish loremasters say it helps draw poison from a wound or lighten a weary heart. My people use it for nearly every ill except the dragon-sickness.” If Gimli could have found any while towing Legolas through Mirkwood, it would have helped the elf’s arrow-scratch far better than tobacco. Gimli glanced furtively toward his silent companion, who sat well away from the camp, keeping watch on the horizon all around. They had barely spoken to one another since the wraith’s attack, each trying to deal with the vision in his own way. He could tell the elf was listening, though he looked out into distance, upright and aloof.

“It has virtues many have long forgotten. I am surprised to hear the dwarves know of it, living underground as they do.”

“We may live underground, but we must forage above the stone if we would eat.” Gimli shrugged. “Our loremasters do not forget easily. You must remember, it is less than the life of a single dwarf since our exile from Erebor, and before that, it was but the life of one dwarf since the Battle of Azanulbizar. We still remember much of the lore we knew in Khazad-dûm.” Gimli turned his eyes west, where the Misty Mountains loomed tall and grey on the horizon. “There stands Barazinbar himself, shining in the morning.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Strider. “Snow may fall in the Redhorn Pass even during high summer, and any who climb during winter court their deaths, laddie. Just because I have not set foot on its slopes does not mean I will forget it.”

“We will not go to the Dwarrowdelf today or any other day, if I can help it.” Gandalf huffed, frowning.

“There are those who say we should reclaim all we once lost in Moria, now Erebor is ours again,” Gimli said.

“Any who try will march to their deaths. It is not a matter of orcs, Gimli, or mountain goblins, or even trolls. Durin’s Bane is there. It is too great a foe for the axes of the dwarves.” Gandalf shook his head, his eyes shadowed. “Our path does not go so far west yet, in any case. We travel to Lothlórien.”

They journeyed alongside Anduin, looking for a place to cross, but the water was swift and deep. “We will find a path,” Gandalf seemed untroubled.

They traveled north for several days, and Gimli watched with wonder as the forest to the west of the river slowly changed from the bare branches of oak and fir and elm to slender birches with white trunks and some other, unfamiliar tree, its leaves golden, unfallen despite the chill.

“The mallorns of Lothlórien,” Legolas said when he noticed Gimli staring at them. He kept himself a careful distance from the dwarf, and did not look on him. “They come from a single seed carried from Aman and planted here in memory of Laurelin, the Golden Tree. They are small by the river, but in Caras Galadon, they grow so tall elves have built their homes among the branches.”

Gimli looked at the elf with doubt, baffled by most of what he said. “Is this the golden wood of which the legends warn? We fly from one peril to another just as ill, it seems.”

“You speak without knowledge.” Gandalf thumped his staff on the ground to silence Gimli. “Wait and learn for yourself before passing judgment or listening to lore from those who would twist good to ill.”

Where the Celebrant joined the Anduin, they found a single grey boat waiting to ferry travelers across the swift course of the river. Gandalf looked on it, then turned to the party. “The two of you camp here while I cross the river with Strider. I must consult with the Lady of the Wood. We will return before the moon fades.”

Legolas frowned his disappointment. “But I would see Lothlórien, and learn the ways of its trees. I would come to know its people.”

Gandalf laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It is not yet your time to enter the Golden Wood, Legolas. Nor yours, Gimli, though my heart tells me one day the Lady will welcome you both as honored guests.”

“I am satisfied to remain here,” Gimli said. “Trees hold little interest for me, and cities of elves even less.”

They stood together on the east bank of Anduin and watched Gandalf and Strider paddle across, their boat anchored by a slender rope so they were not carried downstream by the current.

They made their camp within sight of the landing and Gimli kindled fire. Legolas did his part, though he did not speak, lost within his own thoughts, the distance still great between them. Gimli let him be, but he watched his companion, guessing at the causes of Legolas’s dark mood. 

This was what the wraith wanted; this was its goal in leading them into its trap in Dol Guldur: to drive them apart, destroy trust and create discord with fear and doubt. A small thing, perhaps, to drive a wedge between two companions, but if it succeeded, it was a victory for the shadow.

Gimli was strong, and he knew the truth of the elf. He would not let the wraith's evil win.

When Legolas made to steal away, Gimli followed. He tried to match his steps to the elf’s, pausing when he paused, but his attempt did not work.

“I can hear your breath even if you do not step heavily.” Legolas turned to him. His lips smiled, but his eyes were sad and guarded. “What is the matter?”

“I think you need a companion.” Gimli lifted his chin, defiant, prepared to be told to go back to the camp at once.

Legolas studied him. “That is the thought of a friend.”

Gimli felt his ears redden, and was glad of his bushy hair and helm, which covered them. “Or of a good servant.”

A faint smile ghosted across Legolas’s face. “Walk with me to the riverside, then.” He led Gimli forward, and they passed under whispering birches, their feet scattering a thin dusting of fallen leaves. Though it was well beyond the first frost, small golden flowers nodded in sheltered crannies of the rock at the waterside where they sat to look across Anduin at the wood. Lanterns could be seen from afar, hanging amidst the boughs like small constellations of stars, but Gimli could see nothing clearly, as if the wood were wrapped in a soft haze of mist.

Still Legolas did not speak.

“We could not have saved Giledhel.” Gimli said at length. It was not the only thought that weighed on his companion, but it was a heavy one.

“If we had gone at once, we might have saved him and perhaps others.”

“Without the wizard, we would have been lost.” Gimli strode stubbornly forward, shaking his head. “He broke the wraith’s spell and banished him from the bridge.”

At the mention of the spell, Legolas drew breath between his teeth, a swift hiss.

“Gimli.” He halted, staring at the ground. “I know not if we saw the same vision, yet I must speak of it as if you had. I would never compel you to serve me so.”

Gimli stopped also; bending, he plucked a small golden flower and spun it between his thumb and finger.

“I have no fear you would force any to serve you in that way, elf.” He answered shortly. "Such violence is not in you."

Legolas’s shoulders slumped, as though he had been relieved of a heavy burden. “Then it was the same seeing.”

“Aye.” Gimli dropped the flower and his fists closed, his knuckles white. He could still remember every detail, sharp and seductive and bitter, both as vivid and cold as diamond and as hot and shining as molten gold, searing any who might dare touch it.

Legolas picked up the small blossom and studied it in turn. “Why did the wraith send us such a vision?” The question escaped him on a breath.

“It wished to make us mistrust and fear one another. Is that not enough to know? Is that not enough reason to refuse its will? Let us speak no more of what we saw, and be easy with one another again. It was a foul trick played by a servant of evil.” Gimli forced the words between gritted teeth. “The why matters not.”

Legolas reached toward him and Gimli stiffened as the elf’s long fingers neared his face, but the elf only tucked the delicate flower into Gimli’s hair, its slender stem sliding behind his ear. Gimli trembled, not knowing what to think, but the elf barely touched him, so he did not remove the blossom.

“Let us go back to the campfire so you may be warm,” Legolas said softly, but he was quiet through the long evening, and still he would not look at Gimli.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli helps Legolas commemorate Giledhel.

The next day the elf was no better, nor the next. Gimli shook his head and set himself to work. He sent the elf hunting and claimed the pelts while Legolas roasted the meat. He took his small knife and some green sticks and set to work, smoothing slim shafts of green wood and binding tufts of the deer's fur to the ends.

“Are you making arrows?” Legolas frowned in consternation, roused at last to curiosity. “Those will not fly true.”

“They are not arrows, elf.” Gimli kept working. “You have not yet released your pain over Giledhel.” Gimli knew it was so. The elf did not sing or drink wine and barely touched the food they made.

“I have seen many lives end throughout the long years,” Legolas answered, tilting his head back to look at a faint rainbow gleaming in the spray over a rapid in the river. “Yet I have never before believed I should have given my own to prevent it.”

Gimli considered him for a long moment, chewing at his lip, deciding. He stood and shed both belt and tunic, standing before the elf in his undertunic and breeches. Wrestling the garment free of his belt, he tugged it up, turning his back to the elf. “There,” he said. “On my left shoulder near the neck. Do you see?”

“The hammer and anvil?”

“No. That marks me as Durin’s kin and was done when I came of age. Below that and to the right.”

“The figure made of a single line twined in a tangled knot?”

“Aye.” Gimli was forbidden to name his family as his own, but he would not be thwarted. “A dwarrowdam gave birth to a son of the line of Durin, and he helped conceive his own son,” he said, sober. “She did not live to see her son's son come of age, but he marked himself with her sigil, that he might remember always she was part of him. It is a thing dwarves do, wearing our grief upon our skins so the dead may know our reverence, so the maker will know our devotion, so we will not forget. The mark eases the burden of carrying our grief solely in our hearts.”

The elf rose and approached, standing very close. Gimli made himself remain still, though the memory of the vision made him nervous at having the elf so close behind him. He wondered if Legolas would touch him; his skin prickled and fine hairs stood up on the nape of his neck, but Legolas did not.

“Giledhel had a sigil of his own: a seven-pointed star behind three mallorn leaves, with a star of elanor upon them.” Legolas spoke softly and Gimli was sure he could feel the elf's hand hovering over his skin, warm but untouching. Legolas spoke again, quietly. “But it is not the way of elves to wear such a mark, for we remember those who are lost with untarnished memory.”

“Perhaps it is as well. I have no inks or needles to make a mark that will last. But I might draw it on you anyhow.” Gimli offered. “The ritual may be a comfort, and you can wear the marking until it fades.”

“I would like that,” Legolas answered him softly.

Gimli finished his brushes, then gathered walnuts and husked them, staining his fingers with the dark juice. He crushed the hulls and steeped them, mixing his ink with a bit of rust. By the time all was ready, Gimli was so beset with nerves he feared his fingers would shake and spoil the design Legolas had sketched for him using a twig and the soft forest loam. He would have to touch the elf for the first time since the vision. He must be mad; he should never have suggested this.

“Where will you have it?” He made his voice calm.

Legolas considered. “Yours is on your back.”

“I can draw it wherever you wish.” Gimli shrugged. “You might put it where only you can see it, or where it will be seen by others.”

“Here.” Legolas touched his right breast.

Gimli swallowed. “Ready yourself, then.” He fussed with the little pot of walnut ink; it smelled of earth and rust. He had prepared a dozen brushes ranging from thin to thick, some of them with short bristles and slanted tips. He carefully did not watch as the elf peeled off his tabard and shirt.

“Tie back your hair unless you wish it painted.” Under no circumstances would he touch it! The wraith might show him what madness it would, but Gimli was yet Gimli, and he might be property, but he was not paramour. Let Legolas mind his own hair.

Legolas obeyed, winding his long fine hair into a tail and draping it against the left of his neck, out of Gimli’s way. His pale skin glowed golden where the firelight burnished it, but shone silver-blue where the stars touched him in the shadows. Gimli swallowed hard at the sight of the elf's beauty, dipping his brush and making a few strokes on his own wrist, testing the brush, steadying himself.

Legolas waited, still and patient. Gimli made him sit up straight, turning him to face the fire and adjusting him so he could reach his canvas. The elf’s living skin made silk seem coarse and cold. Gimli’s face flushed red, but he hoped it was not apparent by firelight.

This was not a moment for such frivolity or fear. This was a solemn ritual, even if the marking would not last.

The thought steadied him, and he touched the brush to Legolas’s chest. “Speak of Giledhel,” he directed. His fingers were thick and coarse against smoothness, ruddy and dark-stained against the porcelain-perfect skin.

Legolas obeyed, halting words falling from his tongue. He told Gimli of Giledhel’s loyalty, his skill with a bow, how he loved to dance, his favorite vintage of wine, the markings upon the fletchings of his arrows.

Gimli drew the flower first-- the same blossom Legolas had set in Gimli’s hair, a thing the elf called elanor. He would not have Legolas know he now kept the blossom pressed in his pack. Its five petals formed a perfect star, its throat a tiny circle Gimli placed well above the elf’s nipple.

Legolas tried to watch, his head bent close.

“Look later, elf. I need the light.” Gimli could not bear to chance the touch of that golden head, that shining hair, against his own. He inked the brush, darkening his marks where it was needed by going over them again, and moved on.

Mallorn leaves, three, made a layer behind the blossom, their graceful triangles traced with delicate veins. Gimli held his lip between his teeth as he dipped his brush. Carefully he applied himself to shading, re-painting parts of the design with the dark ink. He switched brushes for a finer line, the brush-strokes dull against the elf’s glowing skin, and all the while Legolas spoke of his friend, his cheeks wet and gleaming in the firelight.

Next the star behind the leaves-- seven points, interlaced, with loops of vine curled about, eclipsing the star in places, twining behind it in others. Gimli worked slowly, patient, losing himself in the intricacy of the design. He wanted to make no mistakes here in the most intricate part of the pattern. This was the part most like dwarf-work, the careful carving of interlaced knots gracing armor and stone.

[Elven Star by Don't Eat the Paste, inspiration for Giledhel's sigil](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZIG9mdOPq1U/Tf15TK5H_5I/AAAAAAAABzA/KRUol8KBcec/s1600/mallorn_star_cp.png)

The elf never moved, his breath warm on Gimli’s cheek. Finally Gimli finished and blew on the last strokes to dry them, pulling back. He set the brush and ink aside.

“Giledhel is with you,” he said quietly. Legolas studied the design.

“You have a skilled hand indeed,” the elf murmured, and Gimli could hear his admiration in his tone. “Giledhel would be pleased.”

“I was taught to engrave metal and stone, and to etch metal using wax and acid. I was always skilled with drawing. My cous--” Gimli caught himself. “An old dwarf told me his hands were not steady, so I learned to help him.”

Legolas’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “Again you stop yourself. You may not name your family?”

“Dwarves are held kinless while we serve others under oath. It is the same for any service. If I wished to become a master smith, I would apprentice myself to one. I would be his while I trained. No other covenant could be made or honored until I finished.” Gimli shrugged.

The elf nodded, then tilted his head back and looked through the tangled branches to the stars. He began to sing softly. Gimli thought it a lament, sweet and sad, but with a driving pulse beneath the song that waxed and waned. No stately sorrow, this, but a driving, hunted anguish.

He closed his eyes, but the elf was waiting in his thoughts, so he opened them again. Legolas still sang, the tail of his hair trailing over his shoulder. A wisp had come free at his temple to flutter in the breeze. It all but begged to be tidied. Gimli’s mouth went dry at the sight, and his fingers twitched with a sudden surprising impulse to touch it and tuck it back. He closed his fist, breaking the delicate brush he held. His fingers tingled, thwarted, still remembering the touch of satiny skin.

Insanity. If he did not take care, the wraith’s poisonous vision would overthrow his mind!

Longing for calm, Gimli reached into his pack and pulled out his pipe. He filled it with tobacco, his movements slow and stubborn, his thick, sturdy fingers stained with walnut-juice and rust. The pipe lit readily when he made flame on a twig with a spill from the fire. He puffed slowly, staring into the glowing bowl. Ale would be a blessing, if he could drink enough of it to send him into sleep without dreams.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two new travelers join Gandalf's company. (Nobody got NOTHIN' on the Lady of Lórien. She knows from UST.)

Gimli woke to the distant clamor of horses and the ashes of a cold campfire. He rose, stretching out muscles stiffened with chill, and went to the riverside. Legolas stood waiting as a wide, shallow barge poled its way across the torrent. Its prow was carved to resemble a swan. On it rode several horses, a tall white charger foremost among them. An elf-woman stood at the horse’s side, her face hidden beneath a helm of hardened leather. She wore a sword belted about her slender hips and carried an unstrung bow. Her hair was braided down the back and the thick plait hung well past her knees. Another elf stood at her side, helping with the beasts, and several others handled the barge poles. The whole affair was tethered to the ferry-rope, which seemed impossibly slender to bear such a burden, but barely sagged and did not snap.

The she-elf was certainly the master of her horse, which stood meekly and with patience despite the rolling of the bow over wavelets in the current. The others danced and stamped, but quieted when she spoke.

The barge landed and the poleman opened a gate in the railing so the horses could step through onto the sandy landing. Legolas went aboard to help, and the new elves spied Gimli standing at the verge of the woods. The she-elf led her horse forward toward him while Legolas and the other tended the baggage.

Something about her froze him in place, his breath catching in his chest. He fumbled to remove his helm and held it before his chest, her regal bearing moving him to courtesy. She moved with absolute assurance, a quiet grace that was more striking than ostentatious, her ease so unlike Thranduil’s taut posturing it hardly seemed the king of Mirkwood might be of a kind with her.

Gimli realized he was waiting with great eagerness for her to remove her helm so he might look upon her face.

“ _Mae govannen_ , Son of Durin,” she said, her voice a rich, melodious alto. “Or perhaps I should say well met. You must be Gimli.” She inclined herself at the waist and spoke politely in archaic but perfectly accentless Khuzdul: “I am at your service.”

“Well met, indeed. You must forgive me, my lady. I am not at liberty to offer my service in return. But when I am again my own to command, I will serve you however you wish.” Gimli bowed so low he might have toppled over. “Yet I do not know your name so I may find you to offer it.”

“I am called Galadriel,” she said. “My companion is Haldir, warden of the western march, now ambassador to Erebor.”

When he rose again she removed her helm and smiled on him, her glory of golden hair ever so slightly mussed, her eyes alight as though they reflected many glimmering stars. Gimli shifted his feet, feeling abashed before her clear gaze, his fingers tight on the rim of his helm. She was so lovely he had no words to compass her beauty, and she had spoken to him in his own tongue, smiling, offering no insult in either word or manner.

“I would apologize to you and all your kin for our failure to help in your time of need.” The lady spread her delicate hands before him. “As our land lies so far to the south, it is difficult to know of such needs in time. Sending supplies over Anduin may be done, but we in the Golden Wood have few horses or wagons in which to carry food so far. My companion Haldir is to carry the wood’s embassy to Erebor. We are too late to help with the first pressing need, but he carries seeds and cuttings of plants that will thrive on your mountain, and he will help your people and the men of Dale learn to cultivate them. Then they may rely on themselves to raise the food they require, and will not have to ask charity or buy from those who do not wish to sell. The dwarves of Erebor need not fear starvation again.”

Overcome by her kind words, Gimli bowed his head. “Your kindness is unlooked for, and all the more welcome for it. If only Thranduil and the elves of the Woodland Realm had half the grace and kindness of the folk of Lothlórien!” His voice choked in his throat, and he could not speak further.

Legolas and the elf Haldir finished unloading the graceful barge, leading the horses up the hill as the boat turned back to retrieve Gandalf and Strider from the far shore.

There were five horses in all. Gimli tore his eyes away from the lady to meet the other newcomer, whose gaze was not so welcoming. His lip curled and he hung back, tipping his chin up so far Gimli thought he might be in danger of drowning, should it rain.

“Haldir.” The lady spoke. “Help Gimli break camp. We will ride when the others arrive.”

Haldir did as she bade, though there was little to be managed. They were ready, with their baggage loaded on the horses, by the time Gandalf and Strider joined them and bowed to the lady. Gimli frowned. There were six of them, but only five horses. Gimli sighed. There was little hope they meant to let him walk.

“Gandalf said you would not be willing to ride alone. Will you ride with me, Gimli?” Legolas asked, hesitant. “If you would rather not, Strider’s horse can bear you both.”

Gimli felt all eyes on him, and flushed, startled to be given the choice. “I prefer my own legs, but I will ride with you. The lad is too reckless.” He put on a bluff front, blustering a little at Legolas in his discomfort. Haldir frowned, a distasteful expression that made him look vaguely like a stuffed trout, but Galadriel and Gandalf both smiled.

Strider gave a token bow of concession, but did not speak, and something about his manner interested Gimli. He would have made an inquiry of the lad, but Legolas dismounted from his horse and offered his hands as a stirrup. He boosted Gimli onto the horse’s bare back, then straightened.

“There’s no saddle!” Gimli complained.

“That will make your ride easier.” Legolas vaulted up lightly, swinging one leg over Gimli’s head, and was seated before him so quickly Gimli had no time to protest or flinch. Better to ride behind the elf than before him, he supposed. He still shuddered at the memory of the vision, and would not be comfortable feeling Legolas pressed against his back. He was not comfortable with this, either!

“Hang on to my belt,” Legolas advised, but Gimli set his hands upon his own thighs instead, meaning to be stubborn. When Legolas whispered to the horse, it started forward so swiftly Gimli lurched and was nearly thrown. He threw his arms around the elf’s waist and clung tightly keep from falling.

“Are you all right?” Legolas glanced over his shoulder.

Gimli realized his face was buried in the elf’s sweet-scented golden hair, his arms flung in desperation around Legolas's narrow waist. He snapped his neck back so swiftly he very nearly fell backward over the horse’s tail, his ears burning with mortification.

“I might be, if you would let me settle before starting!” He tried to keep his tone calm out of deference to the lady.

“I am sorry.” The elf sounded sincere, and again his consideration made Gimli blink.

“Apology accepted.” Half-hypnotized, Gimli stared at the fine-spun living gold before him. The wind lifted the gossamer strands and they danced lightly, as if reaching to ensnare him. He felt a lock tickle against his cheek. The elf’s waist felt limber and warm beneath his thin clothing. Gimli swallowed hard, trembling as heat flushed through him, trying to ensure as little of his body touched the elf's as possible. Mahal be merciful. Was this still the wraith’s spell?

“Legolas.” The lady reined her horse next to them, reaching to put something in Legolas’s hand.

“Yes, my lady? Oh!” Legolas swiftly reached to pull his trailing hair forward, tying it into a long tail with the leather thong she had provided.

Galadriel gave Gimli a quick, secret smile and drew her horse away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mae govannen_ : Well met


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn has a secret, but not for long. Legolas is ignorant of dwarvish culture; Haldir is even worse. Galadriel and Gimli get along famously.

The companions rode northward, picking their way along the riverside with Gandalf and the lady leading, Haldir following close behind them. Legolas came next, with Strider bringing up the rear. Gimli craned his head back to look at the young man, who rode with his chin on his chest, completely lost in thought. Something was amiss there, he had no doubt. Gimli resolved to make inquiries as soon as he could get the lad alone.

They made slow time, hampered by the rough countryside. Any vestige of a path was so little-used it had all but vanished. What remained had been overgrown by bush and thorn or overrun and left drifted with stones when the river left its banks in flood. Gimli began to see why the elves of Lothlórien could not easily send stores to Erebor.

The lady and Gandalf drew slightly ahead, talking quietly, and Haldir remained close behind them as though to guard. Gimli was pleased when Legolas fell back to ride next to Strider.

“What troubles you?” The elf asked the man quietly.

Strider shook his head, running his thumb over a ring on his left forefinger, truesilver in the form of two twined serpents with emeralds for eyes. His expression most resembled a kicked puppy.

“Did your time in Lórien give you pain?” Legolas kept his voice low. “Did you meet with some accident there?”

“No accident.” Strider shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. Gimli frowned, thoughtful. The lad looked like Váli when he first realized Nýr was his One--

“A girl!” Gimli pointed one thick finger toward Strider in triumph. “You met a girl and fell in love!”

Strider flushed and would not meet his eyes.

“An elf,” Legolas corrected, his voice slow with dawning surety.

Strider smiled, a little more sincere, if wry. “Yes, an elf-maid. She was very beautiful.” He laid his hand over his heart, his look turned inward, as if he saw her still. “More beautiful than anything I have seen in all my days, so beautiful I called her Tinúviel, and she stayed her flight to speak with me, though I--” He stopped, glancing ahead, then fell silent and shook his head.

“What was her name?” Legolas stiffened, urgency sudden in his voice. “Strider, who did you meet?”

Strider sighed, lowering his voice even further. “Arwen, she the elves call Undómiel.”

Legolas blew out a long, slow breath. “I wondered what brought the queen forth from her land. Now I begin to see.”

“The queen?” Gimli blinked, shocked.

“Yes. That is Galadriel, Queen of Lothlórien.” Legolas laughed softly, the sound humming against Gimli’s palms, which rested firmly on the elf's waist. “One of the oldest elves yet living in Middle Earth, mother to Celebrían and grandmother to Arwen Undómiel.”

“Her grandmother? You have put your foot in it, lad.” Gimli shook his head sternly at Strider. “But I cannot believe it so,” he told Legolas. “Lady Galadriel looks like a maid of no more than twenty winters.”

“Perhaps she does, to mortal eyes. How old do you think me, Gimli?” Legolas asked, his tone amused-- giving Strider time to recover, Gimli guessed.

Gimli hesitated, wondering. Legolas seemed very young to him, looking no older than Strider though he bore himself with great grace and surety. But his father had been king in the time of Thrain, and Nardan had spoken of Thranduil’s service to Thingol. Gimli had no idea when that king had lived. “Eight hundred years,” he guessed. It was more than twice the lifespan of the oldest dwarf.

“You are wrong. I was born when the third age was yet young,” Legolas said. “I have seen the leaves fall in Middle Earth nearly three thousand times.”

“Yet in all that time you have not learned better than to wash a dwarf by force.”

Strider and the elf both laughed aloud, surprised.

“It was a lesson I left until late to learn,” Legolas admitted, his voice light. “But I have learned it and more since you came into my keeping!”

“Then you will not try again?” Gimli felt laughter of his own bubble up, unexpected, fresh and clean as the scent of the elf’s pale hair.

“Perhaps I must one day, but I have learned better methods.” Legolas smiled; Gimli could hear it in his voice. “I shall say, ‘Respected Master Dwarf, water has been heated for you. Wash yourself well, and after it is done you will have food and fire and ale and fresh clothing, and you shall smoke your pipe. No harm will be done to you or your beard while I am near.”

“That would work,” Gimli agreed, the elf’s kindness warming him.

They rode on, leaving Strider to brood on his lady, and stopped for the evening when the sun sank low. 

Strider kindled fire and Gimli began to unpack their food, but Legolas stopped him. “The queen has brought waybread for us.”

“Cram?” Gimli looked at the wafer Legolas held out, pale golden and wrapped in leaves. He nibbled a corner, and his eyes went wide. “That is not so bad!”

“Lembas.” Legolas glanced toward the fire. “Do not eat too much, for a little will satisfy great hunger. If you would, gather more firewood while I put the kettle on to heat. Then you and I will go hunting with Haldir. The lady wishes to have speech with Strider.”

Gimli winced. “Poor lad.”

“Gandalf will be at hand. Strider will survive.” Legolas laid his hand briefly on Gimli’s shoulder, then slipped away to fetch water.

Gimli stared after him. The elf had never touched him without need before, but he seemed easy with it, offering comfort in the way a friend might reassure another. Perhaps it was foolish to note after Gimli had spent the day riding behind him, hanging on for dear life. But he marked it nonetheless.

No sound alerted him to the presence of the other elf stepping behind him, only the shadow cast by the growing fire.

“Thranduilion has spent too long among the silvan elves.” Haldir’s smooth voice was cool.

Gimli had no idea what he meant. Surely elves were elves? But perhaps not; dwarves had clans and groups that might differ very widely, and elves must have the same. “I know nothing of the types and behaviors of different elf clans,” he said evenly, though he knew at least that Haldir’s sort did not care overmuch for dwarves.

Haldir merely stepped past him, picking up his bow to check the string. “You should not come hunting with us. You step so loudly the hares will think it thunders in the mountains, and they will flee to their burrows.”

“I go where the Prince of the Greenwood asks,” Gimli told him shortly.

“I have heard of your bargain.” Apparently satisfied with his bow, Haldir slung it over his shoulder. “And of the madness of your king, Thorin Oakenshield, his reason devoured by gold. Is it true he cares for nothing except the hoarding of his treasure, as if he were become a dragon himself?”

Gimli bared his teeth in a snarl, trying to remember the kindness of Galadriel more than the rudeness of her retainer. “Speak to him thus, and he will not welcome your embassy no matter how well-intended. He will send you home with your well-meant burdens stuffed right up your--” he forced himself to silence. He would not have the lady hear the crude remark he had intended.

Haldir raised a brow, arch. “How then should I speak to him, if I would have him listen?”

Gimli stared at Haldir for a long moment, trying to conceive how the haughty elf could persuade the King under the Mountain to hear anything whatsoever he or any other elf had to say. “From a distance? On your knees? Through an intermediary? Do not insist on being admitted into the mountain, or even to Dale. I know not.” Bitterness welled in him that he must speak so of his king, as though he had answered Haldir’s impertinent question by admitting Thorin Oakenshield had become no better than a dragon.

Haldir still looked at Gimli, waiting, so Gimli tried again. “Make it clear you ask nothing of him. No gold, no gems, no alliance or promise to come in time of war. No obligation. Defer to his wishes if you can, and keep a civil tongue in your head. Deny affiliation with Mirkwood. Speak not as a representative of elves, but as someone who would see children fed.” He hoped that might help, but if Haldir raised Thorin’s hackles as he raised Gimli’s….

“Do not offer him cheek or haughtiness. Have patience. Listen and answer with respect.” Gimli flung his palms up, helpless, half-amazed. Despite his rudeness, Haldir was still attending, not arguing with Gimli. Even so, he remained aloof, wearing a superior expression. “Do not put your nose in the air as if you smell something foul! That would help, for starters.”

Legolas appeared with water, and Gimli huffed; he had fetched no firewood. “I have work to do,” he told Haldir, and wandered away seeking windfall branches.

“Do you not fear he will run away?” Haldir asked Legolas, loudly enough Gimli could hear.

“He will not run,” Legolas dismissed the other elf’s worry.

“But we are in the wild. He could go anywhere he liked.”

“He will not run,” Legolas said simply, not choosing to explain. He looked up as Gimli stamped into camp and laid down a load of wood. “When we hunt, Haldir and I will position ourselves at one end of the meadow with our bows ready, then you can come through the grass from the other end and drive the game toward us.”

“How well does he aim?” Gimli huffed, tilting his head toward Haldir.

“Well enough.” Legolas leveled a warning stare at Haldir. “Do you not, my friend?”

“I am skilled with my bow. I will not shoot your dwarf,” Haldir said, dry. “Come, let us go.”

They shot several rabbits and Gimli roasted them on spits over the fire. He and Strider and Gandalf each took one to eat, though the elves satisfied themselves with waybread and wine. 

Gimli hesitated, looking at the lady, then watched Strider and tried clumsily to imitate him, for he would not like his manners with food to offend her, as they had at first disgusted Legolas. 

Galadriel spoke with Strider at great length, though her questions seemed to have no bearing upon his possible courtship of her granddaughter. She seemed more interested in his knowledge of lore, tactics, and obscure matters of history or politics than warning him to keep his hands to himself.

Gimli sat content with listening until he noticed Legolas tending his hair at the edge of their camp. The elf unraveled his braids, combed himself smooth, then re-wove them, starting with the two above his ears.

Gimli tried not to stare, knowing he was being impolite, but something had changed in the familiar ritual. Instead of leaving much of his hair free to fall long and straight behind, Legolas began a different sort of braid at the crown of his head, sweeping up all his hair to join the braid as he moved back, working the two small ones into it, then plaiting all the way down.

Gimli’s jaw dropped and his face burned. The elf was altering his braid-- for Gimli’s sake, that his hair might not blow in Gimli’s face!

The why did not matter, only that he had done it. He was doing it even now, braiding himself for Gimli where all could see, his nimble fingers moving swiftly. Gimli dropped his eyes and stared at the remains of his rabbit as if he had never seen meat before, feeling mortified as he had not since he was a young lad who had just dropped a silver dish of his mother’s best venison roast in the lap of their dinner guest-- no less illustrious a personage than Thorin Oakenshield’s sister, the lady Dís.

The elf could not know what it meant to change your braiding for another. He _could not._

Gimli arose with care, setting the bones of his dinner in the fire and washing his camp plate, then drying it and putting it carefully in his pack before he fled the camp on the pretense of relieving himself.

He found a large stone outcrop beyond the meadow and crouched in its shadow, looking down into a mossy dell. He felt an urgent need to hide in a burrow like a rabbit, safe from all that walked above. The cold, solid stone against his back comforted him; it was too long since he had been below ground.

He crouched there, seeking calm, while a crescent moon rose in the east. It stood two hands’ width above the horizon when he became aware of the lady walking in the meadow nearby, her pale skin and hair glowing as it gathered the starlight to itself. She moved slowly, her fingers brushing banks of herbs and the leaves of bushes, making no sound.

Gimli sat still, not wanting to disturb her, but she seemed to know where he was, drawing close by gradual stages until she stood below him, her eyes level with his.

“You are troubled.” Her voice was kind. She had removed her leather armor and wore only a light tunic and breeches over her soft boots.

“I am.” Gimli bent his head, unable to meet her eyes. “I have been so since Dol Guldur.”

“Gandalf said the wraith sent visions to torment the company. Khamûl is cruel and clever,” she said. “It is no wonder you still fear what you saw.” She turned her head up toward the sky, looking to the moon, where a halo formed in the air around the light, speaking of wet weather to come. Gimli thought there was enough bite in the air that it might snow when the weather turned.

“The wraith Khamûl was a king of men, and has been called the Black Easterling.” She lifted a soft grey moth on her fingertips and watched it fly. “In life, he was known for his ability to plant seeds of discord that drove his enemies apart from allies, friends, and kin. He could twist truth and make it take any form he desired, bewildering those who listened until they did not know themselves what they believed or thought.”

“I have feared that I am... changed, since he touched my mind.” Gimli twisted his fingers together, reluctant to speak so much, and yet relieved he might confess some part of what troubled him. “My thoughts are not as I would have them be.”

“The wraith has no true power to change, only to take what is there and twist it, creating illusion that misguides.” Galadriel smiled on him sadly. “What is in your mind is yours, son of Durin. Do not let fear guide you, neither toward what you saw nor away from it. Fear and anger are the wraith’s servants.”

“What you tell me is little comfort,” Gimli muttered, voice hoarse. “Yet I thank you for your words and for your kindness. I never thought to find such mercy in an elf, especially not one of your beauty. For you make the moon hide its face and the sun pale, and the shine of your hair will never tarnish.” He felt awkward and clumsy, but he could not keep silent.

She laughed. “You have a silver tongue. I never thought to find such eloquent courtesy in a dwarf. I thank you.” She came up to sit by his side, wrapping her arms about her knees. “The rift between dwarves and elves is one of the great sorrows of this age,” she said. “To fight the enemy who rises, we must unite all goodly races and fight side by side against the true evil, not squabble amongst ourselves over trifles. It pleases me to see the trust that grows between you and the son of Thranduil. When Haldir would have pursued you from the camp, Legolas insisted there was no need. He told how you took him home to his father when he was wounded close by Dol Guldur.”

“Aye.” Gimli wished for his pipe, but he would not have wanted to blow the smoke toward her.

“My heart tells me the days of peace in Middle Earth swiftly dwindle. Yet there is hope we may come through this time and find war behind us again.” Galadriel told him, her voice low and soft. “I judge your heart is wise and true. If we come through this troubled time, I predict your hands will flow with gold, Gimli soon again to be son of Glóin, yet over you, gold shall have no dominion.” She rose and smiled down on him.

“Do not be too long away,” she said. “Legolas will worry until he sees you safe.” She glided through the gathering mist and was gone.

Gimli sat still after she had gone, unable to name what he was feeling.

He might give answer to the elf’s braiding, though Legolas did not even know he had spoken. The possibility was raised, even if both sides of the conundrum existed only inside Gimli’s own mind.

Gimli thought for a long while as the moon rose and vanished behind a layer of cloud, stroking his beard. At last he firmed his jaw. He would not change his braiding-- not for fear of the wraith, nor even for fear of the elf, but because it was forbidden by his indenture. He should make no vow or oath aside from the one he had made to Legolas’s father; not even the mildest pledge of friendship, given only to acknowledge the elf’s intended courtesy.

His stiff shoulders slumped with relief, but even as they did so, some small place deep within him grieved that Legolas’s braiding would go unanswered. Such behavior was discourteous, and went against his grain.

Gimli rose finally, stretching, but he froze, alerted by a scuffling in the grass. Stare as he might, he could make nothing out, though he could see well in the gloom.

“Probably a rabbit or a stoat,” he muttered to himself, and returned to the camp. Haldir leaned against the trunk of a tree, his eyes wide and his stare fixed, dreaming after the manner of elves, while Gandalf and the lady lay peacefully on the ground, their hands folded and their eyes closed. Even Strider slept heavily, sprawled by the fire. All were at rest but Legolas, who sat upright on watch, mending the fletching of an arrow, his golden hair neatly braided and unfamiliar in its new weaving. He sang softly to himself, words Gimli did not know. He glanced up to smile at Gimli, who remembered the lady's words.

Gimli pretended not to notice the change to the elf’s hair, giving Legolas a curt nod before going to his bedroll. He lay down and swathed himself in blankets to await his turn to watch. Remembering the unseen creature, he kept his axe near at hand in case it might be needed.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel asks Gimli to share a song. Gimli believes Legolas didn't enjoy it.

Gimli awoke to a strange, heavy silence, as though the entire forest had ceased to breathe. There was no sound, not even the crackling of a morning fire. He opened his eyes, finding himself within the dim grey of a tent, which had apparently been pitched over him while he slept.

When he parted the flap an inch or two, he found a blanket of snow covering the ground, thick and wet, weighing down the branches and trees and lying in pure perfection everywhere. Tents had sprouted in a ring around the clearing while he slept, and the fire had gone out. Haldir sat watch, sheltered in his cloak, a thin layer of snow gathering on the hood. His keen eyes darted to note Gimli’s movement.

Since there was no breakfast and no coffee, Gimli let the flap fall and sat back, stifling a groan. Snow was a misery for travelers.

With a bright flare of light, Legolas threw aside the tent flap and came inside, bending and taking up his half of the ground. “The snow is still falling,” he said. “I brought waybread for you.” He laid a leaf-wrapped packet on Gimli’s blanket.

“No fire,” Gimli muttered. “No coffee.”

“The wood is wet,” Legolas agreed. “I have been scouting in the snow. The world is made new, a strange enchanted place.”

“A wet and chilly place.” Gimli ate his waybread. “Will we journey on today?”

“We will wait until the snow stops before we ride.” Legolas twitched the blanket, smiling. “Will you arise and cut more wood for us, so that we may build a new fire?”

Gimli did, taking his axe into the woods, hauling back a large sack filled with lengths hacked from a deadfall log. When he returned, Legolas and Haldir were gone.

Gimli bowed to the lady. “Sit at your ease, my lady, and I will build a fire to warm us.” He stacked the wood swiftly and got out his flint, but everything was so wet he could make no headway.

“Here, stand aside,” Gandalf told him, and put his staff to the pile of kindling, he muttered beneath his breath. A puff of smoke heralded flame, and Gimli hastily knelt to tend the blaze, adding wood bit by bit until it burned strongly.

“We have rabbits left still,” Strider said, and began to roast them on skewers. Gimli went to the river to find water, frowning as he discovered the tracks of Legolas and Haldir as he crossed them. They had gone downriver over ground covered the previous day, moving fast.

They did not return, though day passed and night fell. Still the snow sifted down from a leaden sky, never entirely stopping.

The lady spent much of her time in speech with Gandalf and Strider, but as evening fell she ventured forth toward the river, and Gimli followed her, his axe in hand. “To ease my mind, my lady,” he told her. “We know not what may walk abroad in the night.”

“You may come, if you would see me greet the evening stars.” She smiled on him. Leaving armor and weapon behind, she went out, barefoot into the snow, wearing only a light riding dress, but the cold did not touch her. He followed near behind, sinking deep with every step, but she walked lightly atop the drifts, and she had loosed her hair to blow in the gentle wind. Flakes of snow settled in it and gleamed with brief glints of starfire, taking Gimli’s breath for sheer beauty.

She went to the bank of the river, where a skim of ice formed over the shallows, and lifted her hands to the skin, dancing slowly, her dress billowing in the breeze. Gimli’s heart caught in his throat, and he watched entranced, listening to her sing, her voice soft and low. The clouds rolled back as if listening to her, and the sky shone forth, velvet-black and glimmering with a dusted net of diamonds, each gleaming star piercing Gimli’s heart with wonder.

When she finished, Gimli bowed his head, clutching his axe, unable to speak. She came to him, smiling. “Let us go back to the camp,” she said. “We will sing and tell tales until the others return.”

Gimli only nodded, abashed by her beauty, and followed her back to the camp, where she made Strider sit with her by the fire. The two of them sang many songs in Elvish together, their voices blending in the night. Gandalf sat smoking, and Gimli joined him, pulling out his pipe.

At last Galadriel stopped and smiled at Gimli. “We have sung many songs, though perhaps they were not to your liking. Will you not sing us one of your own?”

Gimli hesitated. He could sing one of the songs he had been taught to sing in company with those who were not dwarves, or… this was the queen of the Galadhrim, who had looked on him with kindness and greeted him as an equal.

“It is not possible to sing a dwarvish song properly in the wood. Here no echoes may roll, and you will hear only one dwarf singing, so there will be no harmony. But I will sing a song we dwarves do not sing before outsiders, because it is you who ask.” Gimli set aside his pipe and looked about. Finding a cookpot, he moved it between his knees, tapping on it and frowning. He cast about, then scuffed his feet against the earth-- the leaves rustled, and that would serve.

He began to hum, closing his eyes and tapping his fingers on his makeshift drum, thinking of dark places in the earth. He scuffed his feet, slow and careful. The memory of Caradhras returned to him, and he began half to chant and half to sing, his voice low and deep.

_Durin ku bin-amrad_  
_Ugmal sullu addad_  
_Ku bakana_  
_Ana aznân_  
_Undu abad_  
_Ku ganaga_  
_Tur ganâd abanul_  
_Durin ku bin-amrad_  
_Uzbad Khazaddûmu_  
_Ku baraka_  
_Aznân_  
_ra karaka_  
_atkât_  
_ala lukhudizu!_  
_ala galabizu!_  
_ala ukratizu!_  
_Khazad-dûm!_  
_Kilmîn thatur ni zâram kalil ra narag, Kheled-zâram._  
_Durin tazlifi._

Gimli opened his eyes, staring into the flames, still following the rhythm with his drumming fingers. The fire dazzled his eyes for a moment, but then he became aware of Legolas, who stood just within the circle of firelight. The Prince of the Woodland Realm had appeared without sound to remain aloof, listening with his head tilted-- the very image of Thranduil, remote and cold, staring down at Gimli as though he beheld a worm wriggling in the dirt. Gimli’s voice sank to a whisper as he skipped to last words of the final verse.

_Ma nîd sakhu!_  
_Ma satf unkhai!_  
_Atkât zatagrafizu_  
_Zatablugi sulluzu._

He set aside the pot and would sing no more, his gaze resting upon his feet.

The lady rose and went to him, setting her hand upon his shoulder, her voice gentle and warm. “Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone.”

Gimli lifted his head to her, fierce tears burning his eyes from the kindness and understanding in her voice. “Yet more fair is the Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien, whose beauty is above all jewels that lie beneath the earth!”

She smiled on him and went back to her place.

Gimli rose and retreated to his tent, not looking back to watch Legolas and Haldir take the two empty seats by the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Durin ku bin-amrad_ : Durin who is Deathless  
>  _Ugmal sullu addad_ : Eldest of all fathers  
>  _Ku bakana_ : Who awoke  
>  _Ana aznân_ : To darkness  
>  _Undu abad_ : Beneath the mountain  
>  _Ku ganaga_ : Who walked alone  
>  _Tur ganâd abanul_ : Through halls of stone  
>  _Durin ku bin-amrad_ : Durin who is deathless  
>  _Uzbad Khazaddûmu_ : Lord of Khazad-dum  
>  _Ku baraka_ : Who cleaved  
>  _Aznân_ : The dark  
>  _ra karaka_ : And broke  
>  _atkât_ : The silence  
>  _ala lukhudizu!_ : This is your light!  
>  _ala galabizu!_ : This is your word!  
>  _ala ukratizu!_ : This is your glory!  
>  _Khazad-dûm!_ : The Dwarrowdelf of Khazad-dum!  
>  _Kilmîn thatur ni zâram kalil ra narag, Kheled-zâram._ : A crown of stars in the cold, black water of Kheled-zaram.  
>  _Durin tazlifi._ : Durin sleeps.
> 
> (These lyrics are from DURIN’S SONG by Philippa Boyens, with Khuzdul by David Salo)
> 
>  _Ma nîd sakhu!_ : Do not look down  
>  _Ma satf unkhai!_ : Nor step too close  
>  _Atkât zatagrafizu_ : The silence will take you  
>  _Zatablugi sulluzu._ : It will swallow you whole.
> 
> (These lyrics are from FOUNDATIONS OF STONE by Philippa Boyens, with Khuzdul by David Salo)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Haldir get along entirely too well for Gimli's peace of mind. Also, they're total gossips.

Legolas and Haldir trotted alongside the river together, well-matched in both speed and grace. They did not speak as they ran, but the silence felt comfortable between them. Legolas had been surprised to meet with such courtesy and welcome, and to feel such instant kinship with a Lothlórien elf-- but then, Haldir named himself Silvan. He was distant kinsman of Amroth, not one of the Noldor, and thus far less distant and dignified than the lady.

To be fair, even Galadriel had not been unkind to Legolas-- precisely the opposite, though she was an intimidating and humbling presence to be sure. Legolas felt a rustic and untutored child beside her, or indeed next to any who had seen Laurelin and Telperion in flower. And yet he liked her despite his father's many warnings against the Noldorim.

Perhaps he should stop expecting to find accuracy in any of his father's prejudices.

“Here it is.” Haldir stopped, standing atop an ice-clad boulder, staring down at the icy shore of Anduin. He leaped down lightly and picked up his whetstone from where it lay fallen in the sand at the edge of the water, half-covered by layers of ice. “Our trip is not for nothing!”

Legolas was glad they might end their detour; he did not like being so far from the company. Around them he could perceive only the empty sky, the wide plain, and the constant singing of the river, but the woods and boulders might conceal many threats. 

“We may return now.” Legolas turned as Haldir picked the whetstone up and pocketed it.

“Not so swiftly, cousin.” Haldir laid a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “I confess, I have longed to ask you much, but I did not wish to do so in company. We will walk back to camp and talk together as we go, if you like.”

Legolas agreed, a little wary. Had Haldir left the stone behind on purpose so he might draw Legolas out? Surely such artifice was unneeded.

They set forth at a walk, Haldir stepping companionably to his side. “How come you to travel with the dwarf? I do not understand your bargain.”

“My father sent food to the dwarves of Erebor in exchange for his service.” Legolas did not elaborate on the terms of the bargain, not wishing to cast Thranduil in any worse light than he must. “He gave Gimli into my care. I think he did not expect them to accept the deal, and indeed Thorin Oakenshield would not have done, but Gimli had ideas of his own. He would see his kin fed, and he offered himself to ensure it. My father had little care for the dwarf’s safekeeping, so when I chose to depart his halls, I brought Gimli with me. I offered to free him, but he will not abandon his word without my father's leave, for it would be an offense to his honor.”

“That explains much, and yet it seems strange to me, for the dwarf does not serve you-- if anything, you seem rather to serve it, taking it food and asking if it is well and letting it ride pillion upon your horse.” Haldir smiled easily, changing the subject before Legolas could protest. “You chose to depart your father’s halls?”

Legolas sighed. “I did. Against his wish.” Haldir did not merely ask for idle or malicious curiosity, he knew. Given the goal of his mission, Haldir very reasonably needed to know the size of the hornet’s nest into which he must put his arm. Embarrassing though it was, Legolas should tell him. “My father has chosen to seclude himself and our kin. He would not raid the keep at Dol Guldur after my patrol was taken, not even to see if some of my hunters survived. He would not aid the dwarves of Erebor without recompense, but would rather see them starve. He would have us fight the spiders only to our borders, and does not care if they spread elsewhere. He has not sailed into the west, and says he will not, but it seems he has abandoned the concerns of Middle Earth completely regardless. I feel he is misguided.”

“The Lady Galadriel says we may not take such a view in Lothlórien, or we will be besieged in the end, with none left to help us, and we will fall.” Haldir laid a hand on Legolas’s shoulder in sympathy. “It may be unpleasant to do what is right, but she says we must grasp the nettle now to pluck it from the earth, that flowers may bloom in its place.” 

“Just so.” Legolas smiled at him, glad to be understood. “And you, did you volunteer for this duty?”

Haldir laughed. “I did not, I confess! I thought myself a poor choice to deal with dwarves, and I would have been glad to stay with my brothers, one of whom is all but named after your grandfather, Thranduilion! But the lady would have no other. As a senior march-warden, I have had more experience than others with those outsiders who try to enter the Golden Wood, I suppose-- though those are usually goblins or orcs, and the poor diplomacy they offer is answered with sword and arrow.”

“Why has the queen come with us?”

“She means to visit Lord Elrond with Mithrandir, so the three may confer together.” Haldir lowered his voice. “I believe there is growing division among the White Council. But I may not speak more clearly, for I have little information. Such things are not yet ours to know.” 

Legolas accepted his words with a nod. “Indeed, so let us speak of other things. Have you knowledge of young Strider? We have traveled together since Erebor, yet I know little of his mysterious noble lineage, to which the grey wizard once alluded, and neither of them will say more.”

“That is a subject on which I can say much.” Haldir brightened. “For it was the talk of Lórien when we departed. Whispers have it the lad claimed to be the heir of Elendil and wished to make known his intention to suit the granddaughter of the queen. Galadriel said him nay until he proves himself worthy, and bestirred herself to leave with him, so she might ensure he would depart and Arwen could not accompany him. The daughter of Celebrían is willful and headstrong, I fear.”

“Elendil!” Legolas’s eyes went wide. “The blood of Númenor yet survives?”

“In that very lad, Aragorn son of Arathorn, born among the Dúnedain, the rangers of the north.”

“That would explain much,” Legolas said slowly. Indeed it did: why the wizard traveled with the lad, why Gandalf would risk a stripling in battle with a wraith, and why the lad had acquitted himself so well against their dreadful foe. He told Haldir of these things, holding back only a few of the more sensitive details-- for his own sake and for Gimli’s.

They whiled the hours of their journey in idle talk, arriving at the camp well after nightfall, just in time to hear the dwarf sing. Legolas stilled to listen, transfixed by the unexpected rich depth of Gimli’s voice. It was a small thing: a single voice, soon lost among the trees. But in the way Gimli uttered the deep and resonant song, in the way he held himself with pride, in the measured intensity of the stroke and tap of his fingers against the makeshift drum and the slow sough of his feet in the leaves, Legolas could see what the words meant to him. In the passion and power of Gimli’s voice, he could almost hear a full dwarven chorus echoing in wide caverns, a thousand others joining their voices to Gimli’s, singing for love of their forefathers and their home.

He stood still, frozen with wonder, as Gimli’s eyes found him. Then the dwarf dropped his gaze, finishing with only a few mournful notes that whispered away into silence. 

The lady rose and went to Gimli before Legolas could recover. She spoke kindly to him, and his eyes glowed with pride as he answered her with such courtesy as Legolas had rarely heard, even among his own kin. But then the dwarf arose and went to his tent without speaking to Legolas, and when Legolas would have pursued Gimli to compliment his song, Haldir put his hand on Legolas’s shoulder. 

“Stay with the company a while yet, Legolas. I have not heard you sing. I am sure the elves of the Greenwood have many songs to teach that are not sung in Lórien.” He smiled on Legolas, and Legolas stayed.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orcs attack Gandalf's company.

Gimli rose in the morning to find the snow had finally stopped and the sun broken through. After the manner of clear winter days, it was very cold. Gimli bundled himself in every item he owned, pulling on his knitted hat and jamming his helm on atop it, before going out to the fire and heating water for coffee. Strider too seemed oppressed by the weather, so Gimli shared the precious stuff. The young ranger smiled at him, folding his hands around the steaming cup.

“It can be a trial traveling with those who do not feel the cold,” Strider murmured to Gimli. “Haldir and Legolas are out by the water’s edge playing in the snow-- they were throwing it at one another.”

Gimli grunted, surly. At least the elf seemed to be happier now he had a friend of his own kind. He filled his empty mug with hot water just so he could hold it in his hands. “I can hear them singing,” he muttered. “They are noisier than a flock of starlings.”

“Pack your things quickly,” Gandalf scolded them both. “We will travel onward today.”

So it went for many days, and every day Gimli wound up riding behind Strider, for Legolas and Haldir had swiftly become close friends. Each morning they announced their plans to forge ahead and scout on foot, leaving their beasts behind, and Gimli was not steady enough to ride alone. The horse lurched and swayed with every step, and he could not even put his heavy boots through stirrups, for the elves did not use saddles, so there were none to shorten for him. 

Legolas’s hair returned to its usual braiding as soon as Gimli rode behind him no more, and the dwarf scoffed, trying to tell himself the change troubled him not. Best to stay silent on the matter, though he found he resented Haldir all the more for it. 

By the second week, Gimli found himself entirely out of temper. Legolas was so wrapped up in his new friend he had barely spoken to Gimli since they left Lothlórien, and Gimli was forced to admit he missed the elf’s companionship. The lady was beautiful, and he revered her, but her beauty humbled him. He spoke often to her; however, they were rarely words of substance even though he spent much time serving her food with his own hands or making free to provide services for her convenience. The small pleasantries they passed were not satisfying in the same way as talking with Legolas-- or even arguing with him.

Before breakfast was finished the two scouts were ready to depart, and soon after the party set out, they vanished over the next ridge, running lightly. If not for the lady Galadriel riding near at hand, Gimli might have snarled. He did not like the warden of the march, neither his supercilious manner nor his smug way of looking down his nose at those who did not suit him. 

Strider slowed their horse, falling in line behind the two unridden beasts. “Have you ever noticed they rarely seem to wrinkle or soil?” Strider sounded rueful. “Elves, I mean. Dirt and snow, rain and trouble, everything falls away as if it had never been. Those two were throwing snowballs since the dawn, and they aren’t even wet.”

“Give me a handful of mud and a clear shot at that warden’s haughty face and I will see to it he has a hard job wiping himself off,” Gimli muttered under his breath. 

“Don’t even try,” Strider laughed, rueful. “Somehow they manage to look well even when ruffled. Dust and grime fall on them artfully and leave them delicately mussed, but still quite pale and interesting.”

“Aye,” Gimli sighed. “I would give much for a hot bath.”

“And I would, also.” Strider stretched his shoulders. “But there is no chance of that until Rivendell, I think.” 

Gimli grimaced. There might be no warm baths in store, but at least they would part ways with Haldir when they came to the Old Ford! That was, if Legolas did not follow him right back to Thranduil’s kingdom. 

“Will you and Legolas ride on to Rivendell with us, or will you remain east of the mountains?” Strider seemed to divine his thought.

“I cannot say,” Gimli said. “Legolas has not told me.” 

“I think Legolas will follow Gandalf,” Strider said softly. “He will not return to his father’s halls so soon.”

“I care not what he does,” Gimli lied.

Strider just raised a doubting brow at him. “As you would have it,” he gave in, turning his gaze forward.

Gimli’s frown turned to a scowl, and he swatted at his ear as an insect buzzed past.

But it was long past the season for….

“Orcs!” Gimli bellowed, flinging himself backward off the horse. He scrambled to his feet and whirled to face their foes. Archers stood at the edge of the woods with drawn bows, and another arrow sprang back off his mail. A dozen or more large uruks charged forward, swinging crude swords and spears. Gimli set himself, snatching his hand-axe and wishing he had some smaller blades to throw. They would have to come through him to get to the lady.

He stepped forward and took the leader, blocking a crude sword thrust with the handle of his axe and hooking his heel behind the orc’s knee, heaving and bring it down. A quick chop severed its neck and he was on to a second, but there were too many for him to stop at once.

Then he heard metal sing, and next to him a long slim blade lit up like a blue flame. Gandalf brought down a second orc with a mighty swing, and Strider’s bow did for another. Then the lady was there, and she lifted one slender white hand, speaking a word Gimli did not know. 

A soundless force blew past him, leaving him unscathed, but where it touched the orcs, they crumpled. The archers turned to flee, but they too were lifted and tossed like boneless dolls made of ragged cloth. In seconds, the battle was no more.

Silence fell and no orc stirred. Galadriel stepped forth and drew her sword, prodding at one of the limp bodies that lay on the ground before Gimli. 

“If Haldir were here, he might tell us where this band made its lair.” She flipped the orc’s arm away from its chest with the tip of her blade, looking for clan markings. 

“My lady,” Gimli breathed. “I had thought to shield you, but it would seem you need none of us!”

She turned to him with a surprisingly youthful smile. “You were valiant, my champion, and gave warning in time. Had they caught one of us with a well-placed arrow, no magic I can make would have undone our loss.”

“It seems strange these orcs are abroad at midday, traveling away from the mountains. No orcs live in Mirkwood, thanks to the vigilance of Thranduil. Or so it is said.” Strider knelt to examine the uruk. “It is a mountain-orc, I think. The goblins of the mountains have a different coloring from those of the plain or wood, and it has an unwholesome smell of cave-lichen and mold.” He stepped back. “Should we burn them, Gandalf?”

“No, the smoke would draw too much attention. I do not like this either.” Gandalf pursed his lips. “Even less since we are separated from the rest of our party. They too might meet with attack.”

“Perhaps the Necromancer sent these orcs to pursue us.”

“I think not, or we would have encountered battle long before reaching Lothlórien, and there would have been many more. These orcs had some other goal, I think. Perhaps they merely stumbled on us. Let us gather the bodies and search them. Perhaps we can find some clue to their purpose.”

Despite the best efforts of Strider in searching the remnants and tracing the tracks of the band back for several furlongs, no clue could be found. They turned up nothing of more use than poorly-made weapons and foul foods none of the party would touch. They rode on, leaving the reeking pile behind them. 

“How does she do such magic?” Gimli asked Strider, still in awe of the lady.

Strider hesitated. “It is a thing not spoken of,” he murmured, quiet. “We should not put our noses into matters too large for us.”

Legolas and Haldir returned after the main party halted to set camp, and an animated account of the battle followed, in which Gimli played no part. Instead, he built a fire and began to prepare food as the others talked and Haldir speculated about the exact tribe of the dead orcs, examining tokens Strider had saved from their gear. 

“They were not Moria-orcs, that at least I can tell,” he decided. “So they have not followed us all the way from the Golden Wood. But it would be a difficult thing to ford the Anduin at this stage, so if they are not from east of the river, then they have been here for some time. Perhaps they were heading north to find the ford and return to the mountains.”

“Our company should stay together as much as we may, in case we encounter larger groups.” Gandalf advised, and the elves nodded agreement. 

Though the wizard had admonished Legolas and Haldir to stay close to camp, Gimli woke alone in his tent again, and again rode with Strider as they went forward. Haldir rode next to Legolas, and the two spoke together in their own tongue, frequently laughing. Whenever they did, Gimli felt his hackles rise. Once Haldir glanced back at him, expression arch and lips curved in the faintest mocking smile, and from that moment on Gimli was certain they were talking about him whenever they laughed. 

“Gimli.” Strider complained softly. “You’re hurting me.”

Gimli loosed his hands, flushing hot. Legolas no longer wore his changed braid, and somehow that only made the situation worse. It was a hateful thing to be a possession, but even more so to be an unwanted bit of baggage, and to be mocked by such a--

“Gimli!” Strider turned, his face wry, torn between amusement and concern. 

“I am sorry. The Lothlórien elf mocks me, and were I not bound by my vow to the elven-king, I would--” Gimli stopped himself and took a deep breath. “Grant him all the respect due a loyal retainer of the Lady Galadriel, of course,” he gritted through clenched teeth. 

“They do not mock,” Strider assured him. “I can hear their speech, and they talk of many things. They gossip of family members and their failings and tell one another stories of other elves both have known, and of their own youth. They share lore from centuries ago, and they admire the plants and trees we pass.” He glanced back at the dwarf. 

Gimli subsided, sullen and doubtful. “Still, he likes me not. Nor do I like him.” He put his hood over his head and refused to look toward the two again.

Strider sighed a little but was silent. They stopped early to set camp, seeing rain sweeping across the land toward them. "We should make haste," Strider said, pulling Gimli aside with him to pitch their tents.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company discovers an unexpected watcher.

Their tents readied, Gimli and Strider went to fetch water. Gimli knelt by the stream to wash his hands, but Strider went on until he was all but obscured by a tumble of boulders at the base of a silvery waterfall.

“Do not fear Haldir of Lórien,” Strider said at length, calling over his shoulder as he filled their water-skins from the crystal-clear falls. 

“I do not fear him,” Gimli snapped, and stood, shaking his hands to dry them. He did not know what the lad was about, going so close to the falls. He would be soaked through, and have to sleep wet.

“Have it as you will,” Strider said, patient. “But you do not know the ways of elves as I know them. Haldir means no harm, but he doesn't understand why you and Legolas have become friends.” He stepped into the stream, squinting across it and moving carefully.

“I am not jealous of the elf's friends." Gimli scowled. "Let him wag his fool tongue at whoever will listen!"

"Elves are most comfortable among their own kind," Strider said lightly, but he frowned and made a quick, urgent gesture with his hand, moving one finger in a circle. It was not proper _Iglishmêk_ , but Gimli understood: keep talking. 

“I care not to learn the ways of elves, especially not that arrogant prick,” Gimli improvised, watching Strider creep soundlessly toward a spray of brush that had collected at the foot of the falls. “If he and Legolas find each other’s company pleasing, I should be glad to be rid of them both. Let them live in one another’s pockets and and be damned to--”

Strider leaped, swift and sure, and a squeal arose, a thin and terrible voice that scraped and squeaked. 

“Let us go! Poor Sméagol! We’ve done nothing!”

Strider stood up, struggling with a kicking, scratching armful of what Gimli might have thought was a halfling, if it had not been all but bald and nearly naked. Its teeth flashed and Strider yelped, struggling as it seized his arm. Gimli snatched his axe from its loop and splashed out into the stream.

“Here, stop your nonsense.” He was afraid to set his axe against the creature; it fought so violently he might slip and cut Strider. “Be still or I’ll have your head off!” 

The creature let go the bleeding bite stared at him with rolling, lamplike eyes, and went still, sniveling and whimpering.

Drawn by the scream, Legolas and Haldir appeared, both with arrows already on the string. “What is it?” Legolas called.

“Get the wizard,” Strider said, excitement in his voice. “Here, now, be still!”

They bound the creature and brought him to the fire, where Gandalf and the lady waited. They arose together to examine the captive.

“I have seen this creature’s prints and heard him move when I scouted around our camps. I have been waiting for my chance to capture him,” Strider said. “He was spying on us today by the waterfall, and could not hear me approach. With Gimli’s help, I was able to creep behind him.”

“Here now!” Gandalf stared at the creature with as much excitement as Gimli had yet seen him show. “Are you called Gollum? I have much wanted to have speech with you.”

“Sméagol!” The creature wailed. “Poor Sméagol, he’s lost his way and is caught by cruel men and elves, gollum!”

“Give him food,” Galadriel said. “He is starving.”

Gimli offered the creature waybread, then roasted meat, but he would not eat. Finally Haldir went to shoot fresh game so the creature might eat the flesh raw. 

Gandalf quizzed the creature-- Sméagol, he called himself-- to no avail, receiving only complaints and self-pity in response to his questions. Smeagol did not want to look on the wizard, and he positively cringed away from the lady, acting as if the sight of her burned his eyes. 

Smeagol’s babbling would drive even a deaf dwarf to madness, Gimli decided after less than a day of listening to him. Gandalf and the lady persisted in trying, though, coaxing and cajoling, feeding the starving creature all the rabbits or fish the elves could provide. 

Gimli took a certain sour satisfaction in watching Haldir’s lip curl with distaste whenever he watched Sméagol devour raw rabbit without taking the fur off first. If elves thought dwarves had poor manners, then let them see what poor manners actually were! Sméagol was even worse with fish, eating skin, scales, entrails, bones, and all, leaving only the head. 

After the third day of questioning, Gandalf wandered away from the fire and joined Gimli by the river to smoke a pipe with him, rubbing his hands wearily over his face. “Galadriel and Strider are pursuing the work,” he told Gimli. “We have managed to confirm he is the Gollum who met Bilbo, but the rest is drivel-- ‘poor Sméagol’ this, ‘my precious’ that-- he seems to be talking to himself more often than not, as if there were two of him within his mind. An uncommon ailment among any of the races. I am troubled deeply by his plight, I must confess.” 

“Why is this creature so important?” Gimli was genuinely puzzled. “So it met Bilbo Baggins on your travels. What of it?”

“I cannot say.” Gandalf frowned into the bowl of his pipe. “The lady can read Sméagol far better than I, but even she cannot get much. There are locked doors and closed windows in his mind, and dark rooms behind them.” He sighed. “In his travels Bilbo Baggins found a thing once owned by this creature. I desire to know more of it, but Sméagol will not tell.” His face looked old and weary, his forehead crinkled into a grim frown. “We do not have time to sit here for weeks on end, listening to him babble. Some great power is on him, and it resists all effort to penetrate the creature’s secrets. We will have to use sterner measures if we wish to learn what he knows.”

Gimli cleared his throat and spat; he wanted no part of such a thing. “I do not know what the stakes are, and clearly you feel you cannot tell me everything, so I may not judge your right to press him.” He picked up a stone and tossed it across the river, watching it skitter over the surface, then splash to sink.

“The stakes are high. They might be… everything.” Gandalf heaved a great sigh. “I will take it on myself to bear the burden of my choice, fear not. Strider will assist me if I must have help.” He tucked his tobacco pouch away. “I want you to invite the lady to spend the afternoon hunting with you. She will stay if you do not draw her away. She is stern as steel, and would not flinch to do what is needed, but I would rather not involve anyone I do not have to. Let the burden of my choice be my own to answer for at the end of days.”

Gimli agreed, though the idea of spending an afternoon hunting with Lady Galadriel left him feeling bashful and nervous. She was so lovely he found it a challenge to speak to her, for every word must be considered with care and crafted to be worthy. He spent much of his time near her worrying she might find his manners as unpleasant as Legolas seemed to. Nevertheless, he would do as Gandalf asked.

“My lady,” Gimli asked with a deep bow, approaching the lady Galadriel as soon as they returned to the camp, “Would you like to walk abroad with me this afternoon? Perhaps we might hunt for hares in case Legolas and Haldir return empty-handed.” Such a thing was unlikely, but he could think of no better excuse.

She lifted one graceful brow, looking to him, then letting her gaze drift to Gandalf and Strider in turn, her wise eyes communicating her awareness without the need for words. Gimli chuffed a soft laugh to himself; one did not pull any wool over the eyes of the Lady of Lórien.

“I will go,” she said softly. “And we will hunt together.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Haldir share secrets and answers are elicited from a prisoner.

Legolas and Haldir escaped Sméagol's chatter by hunting together, ranging far and wide along the river, going so far as the western edge of the forest. Though Haldir's company did much to soothe Legolas, he still felt disquiet and sorrow deep in his soul, and he knew the other elf could see it.

Haldir did not press, but gave him space to speak of it on his own. Legolas was glad, though he knew he would speak soon.

“A fine shot!” Haldir applauded as Legolas brought down a leaping buck from afar and it fell by the edge of Anduin. “You would be welcome on the marches, should you ever desire to leave the Greenwood and come to the Golden.”

Legolas smiled a little. “Your words are kind, but I think I must not accept your well-meant invitation.”

“Is it because of the dwarf? How long must you play wet nurse to him?”

Legolas frowned his displeasure. “Speak not of him so, Haldir. He is a valiant comrade.” He gave Haldir a wry look. “And yet, can you imagine him in the Golden Wood? He would be as unhappy among the trees as a fish atop a mountain.”

“You are fond of him, though he troubles you.” They loped across the meadow to skin the deer. “Both more so than appears on the surface, I think.”

Legolas set his jaw and took out a coil of rope, throwing it over a nearby tree-branch. Together they hoisted the deer by one leg and set about cleaning and skinning the animal. 

“It is too late for us to add this hide to our tanning pot,” Haldir lamented. “A pity, but the lady means to move on soon, I believe.”

Legolas only nodded at him. He could not bring himself to care.

“What troubles you?” Haldir murmured, slitting open the deer with a swift stroke, gutting it, and setting the entrails well aside. “You may speak openly to me, and I will keep your secrets.”

Legolas turned away from him, cutting into the deer’s hide and trying to get a purchase on the slippery skin so he could begin to pull it off. 

"You know the tale of my lost companions-- but I have not told all." He lowered his eyes. "My lieutenant, Giledhel, survived the enemy ambush and was held captive. When we scouted the keep, we found him held prisoner there. He had been tormented and wounded; his body survived without his _fëa_. I gave him mercy at Mithrandir's request." He gestured with one of his long knives. 

"A hard burden, but you did rightly," Haldir murmured, laying his hand on Legolas's shoulder. "For many _yén_ I have led my brothers and our companions in our battles along the westmarch. As a commander, I have lost men. It is a great burden. Every time I send my troop into peril, I fear I may lose Rúmil and Orophin, my brothers." His hand tightened on Legolas, a firm grip, bearing him up. 

"I should have gone after him the moment he was taken."

"You would have died." Haldir spoke simply. "You had the dwarf in your charge and none to support you. You could make no other choice."

"I should, perhaps, have gone and died. It was wrong for Giledhel suffer when I did not."

"Those are the words of a coward," Haldir said simply. "You cannot make amends for the enemy's evil by wishing your own death. Those who lead must accept the responsibility of command. That includes sending some to die-- and saving whatever others you may."

Legolas swallowed hard, closing his eyes against the pain in his heart. "You are right, and I know it in my heart-- though it will be long before I forget the fate of Giledhel. But his loss is not all that troubles me, Haldir."

"Then tell me all, and I hope I may help you cleanse the wound." Haldir's clear grey eyes were gentle.

“There was a wraith in Dol Guldur when we went with the wizard. It sent visions to our party.” Legolas felt great relief in daring to speak of it; the dwarf had begged him to stop, but the burden of what he had seen himself do weighed always on Legolas’s mind. It had kept him from Gimli's side as they journeyed, and he was glad to find relief and peace in the company of Haldir, who did not make him uncomfortable in the same ways Gimli did.

“What did you see?”

Legolas sighed, leaving the slimy work and staring at his bloodstained hands. “A terrible thing. Haldir….” Legolas very nearly ran his fingers through his hair in spite of the mess. 

Haldir waited, seizing the deerskin, and Legolas joined him to tug at it, peeling it away from the meat. “I was born near the beginning of this age,” Legolas whispered. “But through the long years, I have found no mate. There were those who tempted me, but never did I find one to whom I could give my heart fully, without doubt or question. I have always believed such a thing was not meant to be, and I found no lack in my life without it. But then the wraith's vision changed that.”

“How could a wraith send you visions of love?” Haldir asked in bafflement. 

“The wraith meant to drive a wedge of madness into my mind,” Legolas said, resigning himself to tell Haldir the truth. He ached to be shed of the burden. “In the vision it sent, I forced a friend to… commit the act of marriage… with me.” He licked his dry lips, his bloodied hands opening in a helpless gesture. “Though I have never done so before, I felt all the sensations and emotions such a thing implies, though they were in dark and terrible guise. I had not dreamed they were so..." he hesitated. "Beguiling.”

Haldir gazed at him with horror that melted into profound sympathy. “That was a terrible violation of your _fëa_.” His tones were gentle and forgiving, and Legolas wilted with relief at the response. 

“It sent my friend same vision,” Legolas whispered. “And forced us both to feel we craved such things. Together. It has left my mind in great confusion.”

Haldir pulled the skin free from one of the deer’s legs, making a noise of satisfaction. “Feel no guilt, Legolas. The wraith’s sending was cruel, but it was untrue.” 

Legolas did not answer, and in the stretching quiet, the statement almost began to sound as if it were a question. 

“In part.” Legolas’s voice finally fell soft and delicate as a snowflake resting upon the silence. 

That took Haldir aback; he fumbled his hold on the deer’s skin and stepped back from it, moving to re-adjust his grip. He finished dragging the skin down to the front legs before he gave up his effort. 

“You still feel the illusion the wraith sent you?”

“I do not know what I feel.” Legolas whispered. “Is it possible to feel lust without love, or love without lust? Are the two emotions one? What are they, and how should they feel to me? Should they creep on me unseen and brighten suddenly like the dawn? Should they distract my mind, should they torment and scourge? Should they whisper tenderness and trust, kindness and friendship, peace and comfort? Should they come and go like clouds over the moon, or should they burn in me, leaving no rest by night or day? Should they be all of these things at once? Should I simply know in the peace of the starlight that I have found my heart for once and all, in a mortal?”

Haldir gazed at Legolas with deep concern. “I do not know; I am not married... Legolas.” He hesitated. “Prince of the Greenwood, son of Thranduil, name the friend for whom you feel these things.”

“It is no matter.” Legolas tried to smile, but failed. He helped Haldir finish removing the skin. Leaving it tumbled on the ground, they went to the river to wash. 

“I would help you, if I may.”

“I do not know what I feel, whether the wraith poisons me or whether it uncovered the truth of my heart,” Legolas told him again. “I may feel one such emotion in the morning, and again I may feel another by noon. They come without warning and I believe they are real, but then they depart on a breath and I doubt them all.” 

“Do you feel these things for Aragorn, for Strider?” 

Legolas laughed, his heart easing in spite of his worry. “No.”

“Not for Gandalf, surely. He is not a mortal.” They smiled together at the notion, and Legolas shook his head once more. 

Haldir stiffened, and Legolas could perceive his thought turning inevitably toward the correct conclusion. “I think your confused feelings no more than a lingering shade of the wraith’s poison,” Haldir said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Confess your fears to the lady. Tell her of the wraith's torment and she will put her hands upon you and sing. She will drive the evil away.” 

“Doubtless you are right,” Legolas said, and found his heart eased. “I will speak to her of my burden as soon as I may.”

*****

Gimli and Galadriel went forth to hunt together, the lady carrying her bow, and strolled along the side of Anduin together so none might approach them unseen on their left flank. “We will part company with Haldir when we reach the Old Forest Road,” she said. “I think Gandalf will ask him to take Sméagol to the elves of Mirkwood so they may hold him, lest he escape and do mischief we may not predict. If he knows what I guess, if he is what I guess… we cannot allow him to be taken by others who want his knowledge.”

Gimli nodded slowly; he still had not asked Legolas whither they would go. 

“You and Legolas will come with us.” She smiled. “Though perhaps you may later wish you had not. We will cross the mountains to Rivendell, and we must make our passage in the deeps of winter. It will not be a pleasant journey, but my heart tells me we have no time to wait for fair weather.”

“You think not?”

“Even now Gandalf wrings answers from Sméagol. My heart tells me….” She looked directly at Gimli and paused. “You have heard Gandalf speak of the Necromancer. You have faced a wraith. You know the power of Mordor rises.”

Gimli shivered, making the _iglishmêk_ sign to warn against evil almost without realizing.

The lady smiled without humor. “Haldir and Legolas are not only hunting to feed Sméagol. They spend their days tanning furs so you and Strider may wear them when we climb. I would not have either of you die in the High Pass.” 

She looked past Gimli, and her eyes narrowed. Swifter than thought, she lifted her bow and an arrow sang; a hare fell not far away. “We will have food for Sméagol after Gandalf questions him, at least, though he may never trust elves or men again.”

Gimli retrieved her arrow for her, gallant, and put the hare in his pouch. They rambled on, with Gimli holding out his hand for the lady to squire her across shallow streams, though he knew she only accepted the offer to humor him. She moved with light and sure feet, lithe and agile. 

“When the time for council arrives in Rivendell, your questions will be answered,” she told Gimli before he could decide how to word an inquiry of his own. “I will not speak now. But I believe Sméagol is the key to a great mystery, and we will not find the answer to our liking.” 

They continued on, talking of lighter matters such as friends and kin, until the sun sank low behind the mountains and they turned back. The lady put her hand on Gimli’s shoulder. He did not know who guided whom as dusk fell, but they walked slowly through the wilderness together, and neither stumbled.

“Here are Legolas and Haldir,” she murmured at length, and the two elves appeared from the gloom to greet them, Haldir stepping forth with confidence. 

“Our hunting went well, my lady.” He bore a large, rough sack over his shoulder, but it did not seem heavy. Gimli judged it held pelts. He and Legolas also carried a pole between them, over which they had tied the dressed carcass of a deer, ready for roasting.

Legolas did not speak. He looked on Galadriel and Gimli standing together in the dim of evening, and a faint light glimmered in his pale eyes. Gimli frowned, half-turning, and realized it came from the lady; she glowed as if the moon was on her, but it had not risen yet. 

Legolas turned his face away, toward the camp. As they went Haldir began to chant a marching song, and Galadriel joined him. Legolas did not add his voice, keeping both eyes on the ground before him and steadying the pole.

They could hear Sméagol squealing and weeping long before they reached camp. He remained noisy as they arrived, though he lay untouched upon the ground near the fire. Gandalf sat nearby, deep in thought, his eyes shadowed. Strider greeted them, curt, and tended the fire. Together, Legolas and Haldir set up a spit to roast the deer while Gimli gathered more wood to make sufficient fire for long roasting.

Galadriel went to Sméagol and set her white hand upon his head. He flinched away from her and cursed. "Cruel elveses, _gollum_! Leave us alone! Don't touch usss!" But his cries eased. They soon subsided to whimpers. 

“The news is much as we feared,” Gandalf said gravely to her. “We must press on in haste. I think we will make the ford tomorrow.” He did not speak further, waiting in silence as the meat cooked, then ate his portion without talking further to anyone. 

Little conversation arose around the fire that night, and no songs were sung. Gimli went to his tent after taking his share of the watch over Sméagol. Alone, he lay down on the cold ground and failed to sleep. 

Legolas was so busy-- presumably spending time with Haldir-- he did not come to check on Gimli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _fëa_ : Spirit  
>  _yén_ : Elvish year, comprising 144 human years  
>  _iglishmêk_ : Dwarvish language of hand-signals and gestures


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli is glad to part from Haldir, but other difficulties quickly arise.

Gimli rose early and packed his tent, preparing to ride behind Strider, who was nearly as subdued as Gandalf, the two of them mulling over whatever it was Sméagol had revealed. “What did he say, laddie?” Gimli tried as they were packing up, but Strider only shook his head with a tight smile. 

“It would take long to explain, and Gandalf does not yet wish it spoken. All will be revealed in Rivendell.”

“Including the mystery of your lineage, I suppose!” Gimli clung to the saddle as Strider mounted his horse-- nowhere near so gracefully as Legolas, but it would do.

“Yes, including that.” Strider managed a bit more sincerity in his smile. “That would be hard to hide for long after we arrive.”

“Perhaps then we will have some time away from the others, so you can tell me about your lady.”

“I look forward to that.” There was the real smile; Gimli could hear it in his voice. 

They rode steadily through the day, reaching the ford near mid-afternoon and halting there to survey the stage of the river.

“Here I must take my leave,” Haldir said to them all. “I will take this creature Sméagol to the Woodland Realm and persuade Thranduil’s folk to watch over him. Then I will visit your kinsmen, dwarf. Will you send any message to them?”

“Tell Glóin the dwarf known as Gimli is well and traveling with the wizard Gandalf. Other than that, there is little to say.” Gimli answered him, gruff.

Haldir clasped hands with them all, saving Legolas for last. The two elves took one another by the wrist and squeezed tightly, then embraced. “Fear not, and do as I have advised.” Haldir smiled. “I will look forward to the day we meet again, cousin.” He took his leave with Sméagol lying bound and bundled across the horse, well-tied to its withers. They could hear the creature wailing and snarling long after Haldir vanished down the the road.

Gimli felt a flare of bitter pleasure at seeing the last of the march warden, but said nothing of his thought, not wishing to seem petty before the lady Galadriel. 

“The river is high,” Strider frowned at it. “I fear the horses must swim, if we would cross without delay.”

“With winter at its height, the water may not go down for long weeks, if it does sink before summer.” Galadriel glanced about. “We should prepare for trouble before we make the attempt.”

They wrapped their gear to make it as watertight as they could, ensuring dry clothes would be ready on the opposite bank, and Gimli reluctantly removed his armor so he would not sink like a stone if he were swept away. 

“You will cross with me upon Bellas,” Legolas said when Gimli was ready, and Gimli pursed his lips, agreeing with reluctance. His mail was bundled onto Strider’s horse and the rest of his gear on Gandalf’s.

Strider made the crossing first, his horse struggling against the powerful current, and he was swept far downstream before it surged onto the bank, shaking itself. He patted its neck and trotted back up to the ford, where he might shout across.

“It is a bad crossing, but we have strong beasts. They should do well enough.”

Gimli and Legolas went next.

“Hold on tightly,” Legolas admonished.

It went well at first, but then the current washed the horse’s feet from under him. Burdened by two riders, Bellas floundered, going under. Gimli found himself toppled off and swept downstream, floundering in the icy water. The shock of the cold made him gasp, and he inhaled brown water, his eyes flying open. All he could see was a maelstrom of silt and dirt tumbling around him.

His hands were torn from the elf’s belt, but Legolas’s strong hand caught in his collar. Gimli sputtered, spitting and choking as he surfaced for a brief moment, and saw the elf do likewise before they were pushed under again, the water rolling him over and over again-- that solid fist at his collar never letting go, pulling against the terrible force of the current as Legolas struggled to swim.

When he surfaced once more, lungs screaming for air, Strider was galloping alongside the river swinging a rope. He flung it toward them for Legolas to catch. Gimli felt himself go still against the dragging force of the water, the shock nearly tearing his clothes where Legolas held him fast. He groped for the elf’s wrist and caught it, then dragged himself along Legolas’s arm until he had both arms wrapped firmly about the elf's waist. That freed Legolas to pull them out hand over hand as Strider backed his horse, keeping the rope taut until they were safe on land, soaked and muddy and half-frozen.

“We were too much for one horse,” Gimli wheezed, then spat a huge quantity of water onto the ground. Without his burden, Bellas had recovered. A few ells upstream, he pulled himself ashore to shake.

Gandalf and the lady had waded out until their stirrups touched the water, but they backed away upon seeing Legolas and Gimli arrive safely on the far shore. Bellas began to wander, aimless, nosing at bushes and tufts of grass. Legolas paid him no mind.

“We must start a fire,” he barked, his hands already at work stripping Gimli’s sodden clothing from him.

“I’ll be fine,” Gimli tried to bluster, but his teeth chattered so badly he could hardly understand himself. Strider was already off his horse snatching at wood to build the wanted fire; he too was in need of warming. 

Gimli sputtered protests at being bared to the cold wind-- worse still, where the lady would see!-- but Legolas quickly stripped him in spite of his cross words. The elf’s long, slender hands wrung water from Gimli’s sodden hair and beard, unraveling his braids to dry him more swiftly. Gimli glowered up at him, torn between outrage at the casual handling and misery from the cold. 

The elf’s hands dove deep in Gimli’s thick beard, stripping water from the coarse hanks that had made his braids. Curse every elf ever born and reared! Gimli closed his eyes and shuddered, not entirely from cold. “And you think I have no manners?” He grumbled through clenched teeth. “Mahal’s bloody balls, elf, _unhand my beard_!”

Legolas jerked his hands back as if he had discovered he held live coals. “Forgive me,” he said, his mouth set in a pinched line, but he did not retreat until he had wrapped Gimli in a heavy woolen blanket, working stubbornly though not meeting his gaze. 

Strider kindled a fire hastily with hands made clumsy by cold, and both he and Gimli leaned toward it with relief, rubbing their numb hands together over the flames. Gimli heard hooves squelching in the mud and glanced up to find the lady had crossed, her wet garments clinging to her slim body. Gandalf was close behind, also soaked to the skin from the waist down, but neither seemed troubled by it compared to Gimli, who flushed with embarrassment, clutching his blanket around himself as tightly as he could. 

“Legolas, _agorel vae_ ,” Galadriel said. “Dry yourself now.”

She made Gimli and Strider tea with her own hands before she changed her clothing, ignoring their protests. Gimli tucked his toes under the edge of the blanket, curling them with humiliation. Legolas kept a careful distance from him, helping Gandalf pitch the tents so everyone could change into dry clothing, then bringing out cold meat from the saddlebags and serving it along with cups of wine. 

Gimli could not bear to see the hurt in him, evident in his careful gestures and downcast eyes. 

“Elf.” Gimli called Legolas when Galadriel had gone to her tent and life had finally returned to his fingers and toes. “I thank you for pulling me from the river.” He swallowed hard, lowering his voice to spare the lady. “It was bravely done. But touching another’s hair or beard… among dwarves, that is a privilege granted only between lovers.” 

The word tasted bitter in his mouth. Lovers? How would Gimli, a lost one, ever find such? The elf would never understand, for he would have no lack of partners. Legolas was so fair he must be loved by all who saw him-- Haldir of Lórien not least among their number. Had the haughty wretch put his hands in Legolas’s hair? Had he unwoven the very braid Legolas had made in it for Gimli’s sake? Likely so. Gimli shut the thoughts away, giving them no mercy. 

Legolas bowed his blond head. “Forgive me. Among elves, it may be done between members of a family… or close friends. I meant no offense by it. I did not know.” 

“I suppose as the acting master of my oath, you are the nearest thing I have to family,” Gimli grunted, swallowing the last mouthful of hot tea and feeling it warm his belly. “But I will tend my own hair.” 

Legolas nodded slowly, his shoulders and chin drooping. “Of course. Even were you an elf, we are not friends.” 

Gimli felt Strider’s cold, damp toes sneak beneath his blanket to nudge his arse with rather more urgency than was welcome. Much persecuted, he lifted his eyes to the heavens.

“Were I free to call you friend I would,” he muttered to the elf, doing his best to ignore the sight of Gandalf stifling laughter behind his palm as he spied Strider’s move. “For none but a friend could embarrass me so, yet make me feel such remorse with only the tilt of his head." 

“A modest compliment,” Strider teased gently. “Does it suffice, Legolas?” 

“It will be enough, if it must.” His tone was cool, yet the corners of Legolas’s mouth curved, and his eyes shone brighter. 

“It must,” Gimli grumbled. “I mean to cover myself before the lady emerges.” He retreated with the blanket flapping about his ankles, his dignity in tatters. 

Once clad again, Gimli still found it hard to shake loose the chill of his dunking. He heated more water for tea as they sat around the fire, wrapping his hands around his mug. 

“The High Pass will be more dangerous than the river,” Gandalf pursed his lips, frowning at their horses. “I crossed it not long ago when winter was still but a promise in the valleys. Even then, it was a terrible trial.”

“Yet we dare not wait upon spring, not with such news as we have learned. It presses on us, and every day is needed. We must finish our errands with all haste. The wraiths will not tarry to pursue the halfling, should they learn what we now know.” Galadriel said gently, but her manner was implacable.

“I am torn.” Gandalf sighed. “We might leave Strider and Gimli behind to follow later as they may, and the three of us go on before them.”

“No,” Gimli said, even as Strider glanced up with alarm. “I may not leave Legolas. If you meant for me to do so, you should have sent me to Thranduil with Haldir.”

“I will not send you to Thranduil. That is why I did not have you follow Haldir when he left us,” Gandalf told him, voice tart. “I am capable of looking ahead, as you should know, master dwarf!”

Gimli subsided, exchanging a worried glance with Strider.

“Together we will use our power to help them cross,” Galadriel told the wizard. “You can keep our company from freezing, and I will work the weather.”

“I do not like it,” Gandalf sighed. “We should keep cloaked. Any such working we do will be as a beacon to the servants of Mordor.”

“It is true. And we may have yet another foe who will see.”

“Surely he will not oppose us, my lady.” Gandalf’s breath escaped him all at once, and he bowed his head. She laid her hand upon it.

“You know as well as I: he has misled us all, and he would have us stand idle while Mordor rises. Something has bent his purpose from ours. One day we must learn how far. It is only a matter of time.”

“If he is false, this may force him to show his hand early.”

“All the better, then, for his plans will not be ripened.”

“You speak in riddles,” Legolas voiced Gimli’s thought, his voice sharp. “We are deeply concerned in this, Strider and Gimli and I. Are we not then to know the name and nature of our foes?”

“They speak of Saruman the White,” Strider said, giving Gandalf a look that mingled defiance and apology. Legolas drew a sharp breath and frowned. 

“Is he not a wizard from the south?” Gimli said.

“He is,” Galadriel answered, her voice even. “Do not speak of what you hear to any others, for he has long been our ally, and he may yet prove worthy of our trust.”

“Rest well tonight if you can,” Gandalf advised. “We begin our climb to the pass tomorrow.”

“I will not rest at all knowing a wizard is against us,” Gimli grumbled to Legolas as they retreated to their tent. Bitterly Gimli reflected that with Haldir gone, it seemed Legolas once again found Gimli worthy of companionship. “The lady thinks Saruman is false.”

“I believe Gandalf thinks it too.” Legolas sank his teeth in his lip, frowning. “Perhaps I should have sent you with Haldir.”

“Tied among his baggage, a second Sméagol?” Gimli growled low in his throat. “For that is how I would have gone, if I went at all. I have no love for your father, elf.” Nor for Haldir of Lórien.

Legolas laughed softly. “I think Gandalf knows this well.” His sudden lightness passed. “Gimli, if what the lady says is true, there may be no room for love or hate or friendship, or vows of any kind except to defeat Sauron. My people have waged war against evil before, terrible war, with comrades and cities and nations alike all cast down into fire and death. We may none of us survive what is to come. Even should the battle be won, evil will surely retreat and rise again in an age or two. All that was sacrificed is lost, and the fighting must be done over again. Such is always the way of the shadow. ...You would be safer with my father than with this company.”

Gimli unrolled his bedding, grimacing to find the edges dampened by their dunking in the river. “If the shadow rises, it must be fought. Whenever and wherever evil goes, I will fight it in memory of my kin who perished at the hand of Azog at Azanulbizar, and many more before them. Dwarves do not shy from death in battle when the cause is needful.” 

Legolas nodded, relieved. “Spoken like a true warrior,” he said. “I am glad we will fight together not because you have an obligation to do as I say, but because you believe it is right.” He extended his hand to clasp Gimli’s.

“Yes,” Gimli said, and took the elf’s hand, matching his grip strength for strength. “I would wish to fight this battle in any case. At your side is as good a way as any.” He took a breath. “If not better. For I think as long as we stay with Gandalf, we will be in the hottest part of the fighting, where we will be able to do the most good.”

“And encounter the most danger.” Legolas smiled. “But I think neither of us need fear with the other at his back.” 

An involuntary shiver went up the dwarf’s spine as he remembered tumbling helpless in the flood of Anduin, only to be brought up short by Legolas’s hand knotting in his collar. Without the elf’s help, he might well have drowned or frozen. Perhaps he should forgive Legolas his time with Haldir. 

“That is right.” He frowned and jabbed his finger against Legolas’s chest. “You have made the score even by saving me today, but I will soon surpass you.”

“But our count is not even.” Legolas’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I saved you from spiders many times!”

“The spiders are no part of this reckoning!” Gimli protested. “I had no weapon to defend myself against them!”

They argued the point until Gimli’s eyelids grew too heavy to stay open. He fell asleep listening to Legolas’s soft, breathy laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Agorel vae_ : You did well


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While trying to scale the high pass, the company is attacked.

The company climbed into the foothills the next day, making good time along the road. They saw a few remote houses of men, none of which gave signs of welcome; some were abandoned. Gimli rode mounted behind Legolas again now that Haldir had departed, and found himself at leisure to ponder his bittersweet pleasure in the Lothlórien elf’s absence. He had no need of Legolas to mind him through the day-to-day drudgery of travel, but it had stung his pride to be so swiftly and completely abandoned. Now he was of interest to Legolas again, but it was a mixed satisfaction to have the prince’s attention. 

The elf had redone his braid again since Gimli returned to ride with him, and Gimli spent much of his time eyeing the careful rope of bright hair, feeling rather as if it might turn into a viper and bite him, should he glance away. For his part, Gimli had remade his own braids in his preferred fashion. He vowed he would not swiftly be tempted again to change them and give answer, not after having seen the elf’s fickle braiding first-hand.

The braid meant nothing to Legolas, just as the elf’s long fingers in his beard had meant nothing. Best not to think on it. Gimli squared his jaw and put such things far from his mind.

He busied himself when they stopped in doing small services for the lady, whose smile was worth far more to him than the labor. He also talked frequently with Strider, for now he perceived the lad might feel as lonely as Gimli himself had felt while Legolas was preoccupied with his kinsman. 

*****

That evening while Gimli and Strider gathered wood, Legolas overcame his shame and went before the lady, going to one knee before her in the snow. "Lady Galadriel, Haldir advised me to speak to you regarding a matter that greatly troubles my mind," he confessed. 

"I know of your disquiet." She gave a gentle smile, raising him to his feet again. "There is no stain of the wraith's touch left in you, Greenleaf."

"But my lady," Legolas gasped, his fists clenching tight. "There must be! I cannot think how, how...."

"Oft evil will shall evil mar," she said softly, smiling kindly on him. "The powers of Mordor know nothing of love. The wraith perceived the seed of a secret in your heart, and in trying to turn your feeling to loathing and disgust, it watered the very seed it sought to crush."

"Speak not so plainly!" He whispered, anguished, and bent his head. "Such a thing... it cannot be. It shames me beyond bearing."

"Why? The son of Glóin is brave and true of heart. Do not let your fears and pains rule you." She touched her fingers to his face, lifting his head again. "For if that happens, then evil will indeed gain a foothold in you, Thranduilion." Her voice lingered on the final word, her eyes holding his.

Legolas thought he understood her meaning. "Is that what ails my father, then?" His voice turned harsh, though he would not have had it so.

"Have pity on one who has lost so much he loved he cannot bring himself to show his love for any," she whispered. "Lest he have nothing left for himself when they, too, leave him."

Legolas hesitated, pondering her words. "As one who has received little love, perhaps I too have not enough to spare," he said.

"Love does not work thus." She smiled, though her eyes were sad. "Your father is mistaken. Love may always be renewed by those who have the courage to bear its pain."

I will think on what you have said," Legolas promised, and bowed his head, though the prospect frightened him. 

*****

After that day their path steepened, and they rode in long slanting paths that turned sharply upon themselves, winding back and forth as they climbed to ridge-tops far above the valleys. Anduin was a silvery snake in the distance now, reflecting the light of sun and moon, and each day the snowcapped peaks drew nearer. Drizzles of bitter rain fell, mingled with ice that collected on the hood of Gimli’s cloak. Throughout the night mist settled in and froze on the branches of trees, leaving them painted with a delicate lace of hoarfrost that soon burned away whenever the sun showed its face. 

After sunset wolves howled, mournful and faraway, calling and answering one another from peaks and valleys. "We must beware of white wargs," Gandalf tilted his head, his sharp eyes searching the night as if to pierce the darkness and find lurking foes. "They come down from the north in winter to haunt the passes and prey on unwary travelers. I crossed their tracks when I traveled to Erebor, and saw one upon a ridge as I descended. They will be bold now from hunger."

Gimli kept it well in mind, staying near the camp when he ventured forth to hunt or find wood. The elf stayed near him, he noticed-- and tried to seem as if he wasn't, but Gimli rarely found himself outside the range of Legolas's watchful eye, not even when he went to relieve himself among the trees. He wondered grimly what he would do when they rose above the tree-line and he had no option other than to piss where the lady might see him. He couldn't hold his water forever!

He sighed, lacing his leggings back up.

" _Nad no ennas_ ," Legolas murmured, very near at hand, much closer than Gimli had thought. The dwarf lifted his eyes-- and locked eyes with the flat, pale stare of a white warg, standing stone-still among the trees, snow in its fur. " _Peng nín linnatha go hathol lín!_ "

Legolas's bow sang behind Gimli and a blossom of blood sprouted between the warg's eyes. It flung itself back, head over heels, snapping, and collapsed in a writhing frenzy of fur, blood, and saliva.

"None of your elf-gabble," Gimli complained, drawing his axe and setting his feet. 

"There are many more!" Legolas cried. "Gandalf, Strider, we are beset! To arms, my lady of Lórien!" 

Gimli gazed through the forest with new awareness, and more than two dozen white mounds he had taken for drifts of snow blinked at him, rose, then began to prowl forward with deadly intent, lean bodies flowing silently forward across the forest floor.

Arrows sang around Gimli in a stinging cloud, causing barks and growls, the only noise from the oncoming wargs. _"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"_ Gimli bellowed, and waded forward to meet the pack, annoyed as Legolas's arrows found target after target, depriving him of foes.

"Save some for me!" He growled, swinging at a stumbling warg. 

"You can have the trolls behind them," Legolas called. The elf was right; half the mountainside seemed to be rising to fight, white craggy trolls lumbering forward with snow and ice heaped on their shoulders. 

"Every troll I kill will count for five of your wargs," Gimli snapped, ducking one white furry shoulder as it barreled past, stalking forward with his axe in his hands and singling out the leading troll.

"That's cheating." Legolas followed, shooting the warg point-blank, then drawing his knives. "But be swift. We will have more than we can manage if they wake the stone-giants!"

A wild call over their shoulder heralded the arrival of Aragorn, who burst into the fray at speed, sword flashing. Gandalf followed hot on his heels, the light from his staff casting sharp shadows across the battlefield. Gimli hewed at the knee of a troll and it toppled, bellowing; the elf leaped gracefully to avoid it, flipping over Gimli's head to launch off the back of a warg and slicing its throat as he landed. Blood sprayed, glittering in the wizard's light. Legolas caught the falling troll in the throat with one long knife, then darted away as it flailed. "You will have to halve that one with me!"

Gimli only growled and swung at another troll, dodging aside to avoid the clumsy strike of its stone club. He caught it on the backswing, knocking its kneecap askew. Gandalf's sword flashed, and he stalked forward to enter the fray. The lady appeared over the hill, moonlight a halo in her fine-spun hair. She raised her hand and the mountain rumbled; a tumble of stone gave way, taking several trolls with it as it cascaded toward the valleys below.

Legolas danced along its edge as Gimli watched, his heart in his mouth; the elf spun and leaped on the verge of falling, using carefully judged kicks and launching himself off the trolls' teetering bodies to send three more of them toppling over the verge. 

Gimli could barely mind his own fight, slamming the haft of his axe against a warg's head when it tried to bite his arm, then darting between a troll's legs and hewing at its crotch, bringing it to its knees with a howl. Legolas lingered on the crumbling verge to kick aside a final troll, the very stones he stood on giving way beneath his feet, but he danced as though he could fly. If they counted trolls for five kills each, the elf was already above thirty kills!

Gimli scowled, hamstringing one with a side-swipe of his axe, scowling as Legolas finally sprang away from the crumbling cliffside and returned to solid ground, knives in his hands, spinning and turning as he dealt damage to all the beasts he passed. 

"I was mistaken. The trolls only count as one," Gimli snarled, and Legolas laughed, distracted, a warg slinking up behind--

It was not a throwing axe, but Gimli spun his blade and threw it nonetheless, the heavy bit catching the warg and severing its spine, crumpling it before its jaws could seize Legolas. Gimli flung himself forward and caught the haft, jerking it free, In the same motion he spun, a roundhouse move that caught another warg before it could catch his ankle. An arrow creased past his arm, fraying his sleeve, and caught a third; then Legolas was at his back, the two of them surrounded by snapping jaws. The elf's white knives darted and flashed just at the edge of his vision while he severed limbs and crushed skulls with the axe's heavy poll.

Galadriel drew her long, slender sword and stepped forward to join the fray, helping Gandalf carve away at one of the remaining trolls, batting it between the two of them as if they were sly and playful cats toying with a large, clumsy mouse.

Strider managed to drive a troll over the edge, and it fell with a rumbling wail. He jumped to join Gimli and Legolas, his blade flashing with speed and skill, helping clear away some of the pack. Then there were only trolls and whimpering heaps of dying warg, and the three of them ran to support Gandalf and the Lady, taking on the remaining trolls between them. 

It was a matter of hack and slash after that, avoiding flailing clubs and stamping feet until they inflicted enough damage to bring the beasts down and give them mercy: a chop of Gimli's axe to the spinal column beneath the skull, a sword across the throat. An arrow to the eye, and the last troll went down, the battlefield suddenly silent, snow sifting down from a louring sky. 

"Eighteen."

"Sixteen!" Gimli roared with outrage.

"We will count the kills!"

"We must go into the valley and try to find which are yours and which are the lady's!"

Gandalf laughed abruptly and offered Galadriel his arm. "Leave them to it," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling as he escorted her away. "For this is a battle we cannot win, my lady." 

"Strider, you will mediate," Gimli insisted. "There were only four trolls on the cliff after the lady's spell!"

They went about the battlefield retrieving Legolas's arrows and attempting to verify kills, arguing insistently, though Gimli could see Legolas trying not to smile, and he thought the elf did not much care who might have won the game.

You won the more important game," Legolas said at length when the elf had finished reclaiming all the arrows he could, and sat cleaning them as Strider departed, returning to camp. "Do not think I failed to notice: you saved me in the fight, and are now ahead again."

Gimli glanced aside at him. "Aye, well. I could not let you outdo me in numbers without leaving myself the chance to catch you up!"

Legolas laughed softly at that and replaced his arrows in his quiver, then stood and offered Gimli his hand. "Let us return to the fire, _mellon nîn."_

They walked through the stillness together, fingers laced for long moments as Legolas helped Gimli through the snow, before they finally let go and sat down to eat their long-delayed waybread.

*****

That was the last trouble they had for several days, but the mood of the group did not lighten as they neared the tree line, still riding upon their horses, though the increasing depth of the snow warned that would not be the case for much longer.

Legolas sat straight before Gimli, gazing back and forth, noting all that passed with his keen eyes. “The mountains know of our coming,” he told Gimli. “They are wary, and they resent our desire to pass.” He glanced toward Galadriel. “But for the lady, the horses would already be knee-deep in snow.”

Gimli eyed her with uncertainty. He could see no sign of magic on Galadriel, but as they climbed she did not often speak, swaying slightly as she rode. It seemed to Gimli that she dreamed in the way of elves: still aware of her companions, riding with her eyes wide open, seeing both the waking world and some compelling vision she held deep within her mind.

They lit fire whenever they stopped, and at Gandalf’s urging, Strider and Gimli gathered wood, loading the horses with as much as they dared. “Even a wizard must have something to burn,” he explained. “When we pass above the tree line, we will be glad of this burden.”

Snow soon stuck thickly upon the ground, and the beeches and oaks of the forests turned to pine and then to fir. The wind grew keener, and Gimli realized the lady had begun to sing without ceasing, the words inaudible to him, only the melody rising with her breath, hardly more than a chant. He could feel the effort in her now as the fir trees thinned and the snow grew so deep the horses began to struggle. Gimli and Strider and Gandalf dismounted to walk, breaking a path to their next camp. Legolas dismounted from his horse and began to walk atop the snow, his tread feather-light. Flakes settled on his hair and in his lashes, and the wind whipped cruelly about the elf, but neither he nor the lady needed cloak or coat to keep them warm. 

“Gather a last load of firewood tonight and ensure every horse carries as much as it can,” Gandalf said. “The lady Galadriel will ride as far as she may, but the rest of us will walk when we rise tomorrow.”

Gimli woke to clear singing-- the lady, walking barefoot among the snow as though in a meadow of spring flowers with Legolas at her side. She had released her hair, which lifted on the wind, and sun filtered in through broken cloud to illuminate it, turning it to a glowing cascade of silver and gold. She raised her white hands to the sky, mists wreathing around her slender arms, her fingers almost translucent in the light.

Gimli drew breath, stunned by her beauty, and Legolas glanced to him, giving him a nod of greeting. Strider was up, still swathed in his blanket as he heated water by the fire.

Gimli brewed some of his dwindling store of coffee, looking ahead to the snow-clad peak. 

“We hope to make the pass before nightfall,” Strider said. “But we may not make our goal. Snow clouds are hovering all around us, and only the lady keeps them at bay.”

“I have listened through the night,” Legolas said quietly, coming to join them as Gimli took out his dwindling store of precious coffee. “There is a fell voice on the air, and it sings of snow and wind, urging the air to bury us or scour us from the mountainside.”

“I believe it is Saruman.” Gandalf joined them. “He has turned the mountain against us.” He spoke heavily. “We must press on. As winter deepens, his power will only grow.”

They set out in single file, winding their way upward as the path led around a stony outcrop. Legolas and Strider took turns escorting the lady, who still chanted, her whole body taut with effort. “It drains her to maintain this effort for so long,” Gandalf fretted to himself. 

“I will watch over the lady, whatever may come,” Gimli vowed, keeping an eye on Legolas, who forged ahead to find the path. The wind whistled about them, trying to tear them from the ground. With every step the horses’ hooves slid on black and treacherous ice, as if they would drop over the ledge into the depths, where cruel rocks waited with shattered edges sharp as knives. 

“We have reached the top of the pass.” Gandalf’s words were all but lost, torn from his lips. 

Snowflakes whirled around Gimli’s head, burning chill on his exposed skin, but a spatter of sleet came among them. He scowled. It was not warm enough for rain, surely!

He lifted his head, squinting against the driven snow, and blanched, reaching to grasp the wizard’s sleeve. 

A swirl of air caught the snow, twisting it into a vortex of ice as the whistle of the wind rose to a howl, lifting boulders and stones and flinging them as if they were snowflakes. The lady’s voice rose, piercing the air in urgent command, then was lost in the roar as the whirlwind gained power and bore down upon them. Gandalf raised his staff with a shout, and Gimli felt the wizard’s power lash through him as it had in Dol Guldur, but the winds were not dispersed. 

On they came, the wind so strong the stinging snow cut blood from his cheeks. Gimli turned his face away only to see the lady standing tall, facing the storm without fear, her beautiful hair writhing and tangling around her in the wind’s twisting whirl. Strider held her arm, steadying them both, but the ice was treacherous, and even as he watched they faltered. Strider fell to one knee, and half-falling herself, the lady braced herself upon his back, then slipped on a spatter of half-melted ice and slid to her knees at his side. 

The ghost of a warning shout reached him-- Legolas, he thought. Gimli cast about for the threat and found it too late. A boulder flung by the vortex struck the mountainside, and a terrible flurry of snow and rock descended as though in slow motion.

Gimli leaped forward with a roar, his thick hobnailed boots finding purchase on the ice where the soft leather of the elves failed. He struck at the falling rocks with the flat of his axe, driving aside a boulder the size of his head before it could strike the lady. Another shower followed, and he parried much of it on the backswing. Then a pummeling white deluge that humbled the flood of Anduin wrapped Gimli in its torrent and bore him backward over the ledge.

He fell, mountain and sky flip-flopping horribly around him as he wheeled and turned. He glimpsed the lady on the edge from whence he had fallen, standing tall and true with her arms upraised and her garments billowing around her, her voice loud and terrible as she rebuked the storm. Then he bounced once off the cliff face and struck a snowbank. Helpless he rolled downward, thrashing. Unable to find any purchase in the maelstrom of the avalanche, at last he came to a shattering halt with half the mountainside rumbling down to cover him in an icy tomb of snow and shattered stone.

Gimli could not even tell if Strider had fallen with him, or if Gandalf and Legolas had been lost as well. He knew only the aching of his wrenched and bruised body, sharpened by the savage cold-- an ache that faded along with his sight as his air ran short and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nad no ennas_ : Something's out there  
>  _Peng nín linnatha go hathol lín!_ : My bow shall sing with your axe!  
>  _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!_ : The axes of the dwarves! The dwarves are upon you!  
>  _mellon nîn_ : My friend


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli has fallen while defending the lady and must be rescued.

“ _Odulen an edraith angin_.” A voice, familiar, came faintly to Gimli him as though through cotton wool, penetrating the mists of sleep. He would have turned away from it if he could, but he was seized with the paralysis of the dreamer, and he could not. Rest and warmth beckoned, and Gimli sank toward them. But hands intruded, scrabbling about his body, refusing to let him drift away. They were hot against his body, so hot they burned, and he remembered the wraith’s vision. Legolas. Legolas, bringing all his skin to life, such pleasure awakening in the touch it all but seared him.

Gimli struggled-- or tried to, but he could not move.

“ _No dirweg_!” A sharper voice intruded. Gandalf. Now more hands moved Gimli, and pain came to him. He hissed, struggling, but his limbs still did not want to answer his call.

“ _Boe de nestad, hiril vuin_.” Strider babbled in the elven tongue, for it came as naturally to him as Westron.

“ _Naur an edraith ammen! ….Tolo anin naur_.” Gandalf again, underscored by a crackle of flame and a puff of smoke.

“Speak the bloody common tongue!” Gimli forced the words through his numb lips, but they would not obey him, and he could not make himself understood.

Hands touched him, lifting him, and he could feel the fire begin to warm him on one side, awakening new pain in limbs all but frozen.

“Do not be afraid.” That was the lady, and Gimli relaxed at last, hearing her voice among the others. “We have crossed through the pass; you fell toward the western side. You will be well as soon as you are warm.” 

Snow was falling, crystalline flakes winking gold in the firelight as his eyes opened. Galadriel smiled down upon him. She lifted a flask from her belt and opened the cork, pouring a little of the fluid it held into Gimli’s mouth. An elvish liquor, potent and sharp, its warmth bloomed on Gimli’s tongue and swiftly flowed through his limbs as he swallowed. 

Then the lady moved aside, and Legolas appeared in her place, gazing down into Gimli’s face, his eyes still bright with fading fear. 

“Our score is now even, yet I count you the victor, for your quick thinking saved the lady Galadriel and Strider. They might have perished under the stones you struck aside before you fell.” Legolas laid a warm hand on Gimli’s brow. 

The snow was yet falling, swirling down in a thick canopy that threatened to extinguish the fire, though it burned hot and quick in branches of pine and fir. Gimli blinked flakes out of his lashes, looking up into a face he had never hoped to see again, and wondered at how the sight warmed him. It struck him strangely, of a sudden-- this face, once so hateful to him, once so terrible and haughty, now looked on him with tenderness, and the sight of Legolas's countenance made him more glad than any other, even the Lady.

“Be swift in tending him, Strider.” Gandalf scowled up into the swirling blizzard. “We must move on. We are not beyond danger yet.”

“I will sing again now that we have found him.” Galadriel rose, and Gimli heard her chant begin anew. 

Legolas chafed Gimli’s arms and Strider his legs. They gave Gimli Galadriel’s flask to sip and helped him sit up to warm his limbs at the fire. The lad tended the many cuts and bruises Gimli had gathered on his face and fingers, but he was not too damaged.

Strider laid hands on Gimli, testing his bones and watching his face for signs of pain. “Fortune favors you, dwarf. Either you lead a charmed life and missed striking the stones, or you are in fact as tough as the rock itself!” 

“That I am,” Gimli said stoutly, feeling more himself with every mouthful of the lady’s cordial. “The rocks moved aside rather than risk me splitting them asunder!”

Legolas laughed, pulling off Gimli’s boot. “Your toes are cold, but they are not gray,” he murmured with relief, and began to rub them between his long-fingered hands. “We feared the worst every moment you remained unfound.”

Gimli stared down in wonder at the elf tending his feet, kneeling by him humbly. “Aye, well.” He could think of no more to say for a moment. His toes stung as warmth began to penetrate them. Legolas tugged off his other boot as well, helping him prop his feet near the fire. “Would that my father were here now to see the Prince of Mirkwood kneel before his son and rub his toes!”

Legolas’s ears flushed deep pink, but when he looked up at Gimli, his eyes were merry. “And would that my father were here as well to scold me for it, so I might tell him of your valor!”

The snow lessened gradually in response to the lady’s chant, and Gandalf kept watch in case a new storm arose, but it did not.

As soon as he had finished the cordial, Gimli declared himself recovered. They set out with caution, but it seemed the mountain had spent its fury. 

“Can we be sure it was Saruman who sent the storm?” Strider walked alongside the wizard while Gimli accompanied the lady.

“The spell was surely his.” Gandalf scowled. “I knew not that he could reach so far abroad.” He huffed displeasure. “We must be cautious.”

They rode on, reaching the tree line near midmorning the next day, and proceeded down in cautious stages. Galadriel seemed weary after the long days of singing her spells, so Gimli took pains to serve her convenience, aware of Legolas watching without comment as he did. Gimli wondered at the constant, steady regard, but did not change his attentions to Galadriel, for she had grown dear to him. If Legolas was so surprised Gimli might willingly befriend another of elven-kind, then let him stare.

Gimli also noticed how Legolas now stayed every night in the tent next to him if one or the other of them were not on watch, taking pains to speak pleasantly with him before they slept. Gimli made no remark upon it, but he found himself growing ever more pleased by Legolas's companionship.

Soon after passing into the foothills they reached Rivendell. The valley opened without warning one afternoon to spread before them in beauty, delicate pillared walks and elegant buildings perched on the verge of a canyon cut by swift-flowing waters.

"Imladris," Gandalf sighed with relief. "Here we may rest a while and take counsel with Lord Elrond."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Odulen an edraith angin:_ I'm here to save you.  
>  _No dirweg!:_ Be watchful!  
>  _Boe de nestad, hiril vuin:_ It's necessary to heal him, my lady  
>  _Naur an edraith ammen! ….Tolo anin naur.:_ Fire for the saving of us! ....Come near the fire.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company enjoys some well-earned rest and relaxation. Gimli and Legolas find time for a bath.
> 
> Artwork by the marvelous, talented [Sakurita94](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing) (http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing)
> 
> Art depicts non-sexual nudity and is probably NSFW. (So does the story.)
> 
> Also, the incredible @pippychick has fanficced my fanfic– and taken today’s “scene in the sauna” to a much hotter conclusion! :-D 
> 
> Find her fantastic, scorching hot scene [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6465721)! (NSFW rated explicit; Gigolas)
> 
> I’m SO honored to have a fanfic of my fanfic, folks– what an incredible compliment! Be sure to go read and enjoy and let her know what you think. :-)

Gandalf and the lady Galadriel led the way into the valley, she riding first on her white horse and Gandalf following. Legolas set Gimli before him on Bellas and Strider followed in the rear, singing quietly to himself. 

Gimli seemed awkward at first, nervous of Legolas's body in their new position. He held himself stiffly, trying to ensure they didn't touch, and flinched slightly whenever they did. Remembering the vision, Legolas regretted the thoughtless positioning and wondered if he should simply suggest they dismount and trade places, but soon the dwarf's attention was caught by the wonders of the valley, and he relaxed. Legolas watched Gimli drink in the sights of Rivendell, his head craning about as he tried to miss nothing. Clear singing echoed across the many waters, caught and bounced between the stones. They rode steadily downward until they reached a gate, where elves stood waiting to meet them. One dark-haired, slender young elf gazed upon Gimli and swayed with dismay, his face draining of all color.

“Lindir.” Elrond Peredhel laid his hand upon the elf’s shoulder. “ _Áva sorya_.” He looked none too pleased himself, though he stepped forward, gracious, to greet them.

“Galadriel. Mithrandir. Be welcome. Legolas Thranduilion, _le suilon_! Gimli, lately son of Glóin, I greet you. And you, Estel. Welcome home.” He spread his arms to them, smiling. “I have received word of your coming.”

All made their courtesies to Elrond but Strider, who made a small strangled noise in the back of his throat, staring past their host to the elves who stood behind him. 

“The lady Arwen Undómiel stands among the company,” Legolas murmured to Gimli. “She has managed to arrive here before us. How, I know not.”

Gimli shot a hurried glance toward Galadriel, who remained serene, as if her granddaughter’s presence was of no surprise or consequence. 

“The wrath of the mountain was not turned against her when she passed,” Gimli guessed. 

“So it would seem.” Legolas hid his amusement at the worshipful look on Strider’s face.

They were ushered inside and given lodgings, and Gimli was placed in a room adjoining with Legolas’s own. Galadriel and Gandalf accompanied Elrond to confer, promising to meet their companions when food was served. Strider vanished promptly, no doubt hoping to greet his lady. Legolas tapped at Gimli’s door and found the dwarf staring up at the stone lacework of vines and tracery decorating the ceiling of his room. It was warm in the valley, unseasonably so. Perhaps the open walls of the lodging would not trouble him.

“Come,” Legolas invited. “We will bathe and change our travel-worn clothing, which will be cleaned and mended for us before we depart this place.”

“Will we swim, then, in the fountain of Rían?” 

“I think we can do better.” Legolas laughed. “You will be wanting hot water, I think, so you may forget being buried in the snow. Perhaps we may find some. Bring clean clothes.”

He made inquiries of elves as they passed, who soon directed him to the bathing stream-- a series of freshwater pools fed by ice-melt from the mountains. Gimli eyed them with great dislike until Legolas led him nearby to a small chamber constructed of cedar. A fireplace and brazier of round, white river stones waited within, and benches were ranged about it, with clean-woven linen cloths hung by the door. 

Legolas lit the fire that lay ready to heat the stones, then turned to Gimli. “This place is--”

“A sweating room,” Gimli gazed about, reverent. “We have such things in Erebor.” His hands went to the clasp of his cloak and he removed it eagerly.

Legolas turned his back and did likewise, but found his hands slowing as he moved. Gimli showed no hesitation, finishing well before Legolas despite his many layers. Legolas again saw the flash of metal on his friend’s body, so he turned his face away, pulling his tunic over his head. It was not unusual for elves to bathe in company, and he had never felt shyness before his kin, but something about the dwarf was different. 

Gimli poured a dipper of water over the hot stones, which hissed, water bubbling against the metal basin. Steam rose into the air.

“It will soon heat up nicely.” Gimli chose a bench. “Is this place private?”

“Any might join us.” Some imp of mischief drove Legolas to tease. “The lady Galadriel herself may come to bathe with us, if she chooses.”

Gimli sat up in alarm. “Truly?”

“She is busy with Mithrandir and Elrond.” Legolas laughed softly. “But she might, if she were at leisure.” His eyes were on Gimli’s face, but he was keenly aware of the dwarf’s thick barrel chest and heavy arms, and of that maddening wink of metal, daring him to let his eyes fall to examine it. 

Gimli tilted his head to one side, giving Legolas a shrewd look. “Are you planning to sweat with your breeches on?”

Legolas felt his ears flush. He kicked off his boots, then removed his breeches, folding them and setting them aside neatly. When he turned back, Gimli was studying him with keen interest. The dwarf gave him a thorough looking over, his gaze moving from head to toe. Legolas swallowed hard and stood still, allowing it.

“Never seen an elf in the altogether before now. But you've seen me and fair’s fair, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it is.” Legolas took a towel and spread it on a bench, then sat down atop it, fastening his eyes firmly to the flames licking beneath the brazier.

Gimli sighed and flung his arm over his eyes. “Go ahead and have a good look, elf. I’ve seen you trying not to since the day we met.”

Legolas knew his ears were bright red, now, and his cheeks pink-- and the room was still barely warm! “What do they mean?” He managed to keep his voice cool and remote.

“The piercings or the ink?”

“Both.” Legolas raised his head to look, unable to help himself. 

Gimli sat up. “This one means I’m of age, and I will have another to match it when I take up a trade in my own right.” He touched his nipple, where bright steel winked. “The others… they are not formal. A group of the lads had them done one evening when we were deep in our cups, to see who could bear the most.” His eyes flashed at Legolas. “I won, you should know.” He took himself in hand and let Legolas see the tidy ladder of thick barbells that climbed the underside of his shaft. Then he thumbed the gleaming ring winking in the tip. 

Legolas realized it was not round, but formed in a half-circle; there was a flat length hidden inside Gimli, emerging at the base of his foreskin, then the heavy wire curved around the lower part of his flesh until it met itself again at the tip and stopped. “No one else in my group dared this one,” Gimli said with pride, “Though there are dwarves who have other piercings even less pleasant to get. But these have their rewards, once they heal.” His genitals filled as he touched them, pushing upward thick and sturdy, loose skin drawing taut. 

Legolas could not help but stare. He had never watched such a thing happen, not even to his own genitals, though of course he knew what it was for, and had for many long centuries before the wraith's vision. It was a thing that awaited his wedding. He wondered how it must feel-- would it be anything like what he had experienced in that dreadful sending? His head was swimming, dizzy with the gathering heat, and his belly felt strange and liquid-hot. Was he ill? Surely not. It was only the heat reminding him of the unwholesome burning he had felt in the vision.

Dwarves were strange creatures, very different, that they could perform the act of love outside of marriage. 

“I see,” Legolas said, and he certainly did see-- though he did not understand. “Rewards?”

Gimli coughed. “Aye, well.” 

Legolas recognized that as a signal the dwarf was not willing to pursue the question further. “And your... ink?” He was glad to abandon the first topic in pursuit of a safer one; he felt quite hot now, and poured a dipper of water onto the rocks, hoping the steam would explain the rosy pink flush that covered most of his skin. 

“I’ll name the ones I may,” Gimli said, and pointed out his honors-- an armband for his mastery of the first level of armor-craft, another for mastering the axe, mourning marks, and several decorations that meant little other than that Gimli liked them. Slowly Legolas relaxed, moving closer to examine the work. Some were so skillfully done they seemed of one piece until he drew near, whereupon he could see they were made up of a lacework of small designs, twining knots and geometric figures forming a larger whole. Some Gimli did not name, and Legolas did not ask-- if they were more private to the dwarf than the piercings in his genitals, then it was not an elf’s place to inquire.

“Do the markings have a different texture from the rest of your skin?” he said instead, and held his breath.

“Not really.” Gimli was silent for a moment. “You may touch this one, if you like.” He nodded toward his arm, where a rope of figures wound round his biceps. 

Legolas reached out with a careful finger to stroke the darkened skin-- and then the pale flesh above it. “I can feel a difference, but it is subtle.”

“Can you?” Gimli’s eyebrows rose. 

“Perhaps it is scarring.” Legolas closed his eyes and ran his fingertip back and forth. “Here it starts and here it ends,” he said as he moved.

“Aye, it seems you’re right, then. They were done with a needle.”

Legolas opened his eyes and tried to imagine how much pain the marks had cost. “Dwarves are a strange people,” he murmured, still moving his fingers back and forth over the skin. Sweat had begun to gleam there, and it was slippery to his touch. Where the dwarf’s arm lay against his chest the skin was pale and smooth, silky and bare like the flesh of a child, but on the outer portion of his arm he bore wiry hair in profusion, in a variety of hues from gold to deep russet to mahogany and walnut. Legolas gazed, fascinated almost against his will.

Art by [Sakurita94](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing) (http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing)

Gimli sat patiently for a time, but at last he pulled his arm away.

“Dwarves are no stranger than elves.” His gaze rested on Legolas’s chest and shoulders. “You have the narrow build of an archer, but I do not see how you muster so much power when you fight. You are strong as a dwarf, but with only a third as much muscle. It must come from greater leverage and the tensile strength of your bones.”

“I do not know,” Legolas said. “It is how we are made.” He wished he had something worthwhile to show the dwarf. His pale body suddenly seemed drab and uninteresting compared to the square, stocky form before him, with its thick cock and fierce ruddy strength, wearing all its decorations and its wealth of fiery hair. Where once he had thought the dwarf awkward and ugly, he now understood his mistake. Gimli was not like an elf at all, but in spite of that he was well-made, sturdy and strong, vital, breathtakingly beautiful in his way. 

“Now we have satisfied our curiosity, we can stop acting like half-grown children pretending at being healers and go about the serious business of bathing.” Gimli lay down and closed his eyes. The heat was rising and collecting beneath the low ceiling, making Legolas feel breathless and unsteady. He spared another glance at the steel ring piercing in Gimli’s cock-- it drew the eye with great persistence in its exotic placement-- then moved away, pouring more water on the stones and lying down on his own towel.

He felt very strange, his head so light it felt it might float away like dandelion fluff, and his chest and belly weighed heavy, his skin hot. It must be the steam; he had spent too long against the eaves. 

He almost feared Gimli would fall asleep, an unwise idea in the steam bath, but his fears were for nothing. After a time the dwarf roused himself and they went out together to cool down and wash in one of the shallow pools by the river. Gimli gasped when the cold water struck his skin, but he scrubbed eagerly to clean himself and to rinse his hair. His genitals had shrunk to their normal size again, nestled in their thicket of curling hair. Legolas felt both relieved-- and oddly disappointed.

They went back inside briefly to warm themselves again before changing into fresh clothing and returning to find their companions and supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Áva sorya._ : Don't worry.  
>  _Le suilon!_ : I greet you!


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas broods on new wisdom and Gimli meets a kindred spirit who allows him to practice his craft.

Legolas left his companions when they were ready to sleep and went to the Hall of Fire alone, greeting his few friends and distant kin long unseen. He stayed long enough to be polite and joined in the singing for a time, then slipped away to wander in the valley on his own. He felt a desperate need to withdraw and think. 

Perhaps showing one another their tattoos and piercings in the steam bath was what dwarvish friends did when they were not actually drinking to excess and having metal bars or inked needles put through their skins. That seemed to make a strange kind of sense. If so, then Gimli had chosen to honor their unnamed friendship for reasons of his own. 

Legolas found a small empty plinth in a moonlit square and sat down on it, drawing his knees to his chin and staring up at the whispering froth of a waterfall cascading from the opposite ridge. He had seen orcs who had piercings, of course, and war paint decorating their bodies. On them such things looked unhealthy, foul and barbaric tortures performed on corrupted flesh, but Gimli’s body had been sound, with no wounds or bruising, and the piercings themselves were clean, well-healed and tidy, not caked with rust or blood. They obviously did not pain him. The inked designs were beautiful and had been crafted with an artisan’s care. Yet these things numbered among the reasons why elves thought dwarves uncouth, little better than beasts. 

Legolas remembered telling Gimli’s kinsman it would give him pleasure to kill a dwarf. He had meant the words in the heat of his wrath. “Do we fear and hate what we do not understand so much we would destroy it eagerly? And if we do, how are we better than orcs ourselves?” He asked the night, which whispered mercy back to him. And yet, he did not feel he deserved its forgiveness.

“You begin to understand how orcs were made, or how any heart may be slowly turned to shadow.” Galadriel’s voice was soft behind him. She glided from beneath an arbor and came to join him. “It happens just as rivers create valleys: a little at a time is worn away through custom and use, through fear and pain and anger, until we hardly notice the channels carved through our souls and folly seems as natural as reason.” She gazed up at the water alongside Legolas. “Even Morgoth began life as Melkor. Nothing is created evil.”

“It is no wonder Gimli reveres you so,” Legolas said softly. “For you know much where I know little.”

Galadriel smiled, but her smile was sad. “I do know much, but knowledge does not always bring happiness.” She turned her gaze aside, sitting beside Legolas and folding her hands in her lap. “I have watched the shadow of mortality fall over Undómiel, and I see the choice of Tinúviel will be hers. I grieve for what will be.” She looked to Legolas. “She is _peredhel_ , and such is her fate: to choose. I do not know what is more cruel: to choose mortality and perish, or to live on without ending and watch all you love wither and fail around you, until the long years are filled with grief and all else fades beside it.” She rose and laid her hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “Life unending is an even harder burden when you grow to care for mortals. Use well the days, Thranduilion.” 

So saying she left him, slipping away into the night. He watched until the glow of the moon on her pale dress was lost. 

Legolas went back to his lodging and sat by Gimli’s bedside to gaze at his companion. He whiled away the night thinking on the lady’s words.

In the morning a knock roused Legolas from his thinking, and he went to find Lindir standing before his door bearing a tray of bread and honey. “Break your fast and wander as you will. The lord Elrond is still in council with your companions,” he said as three more elves came up behind him, carrying heaped platters of food, mostly meat, and a pitcher of wine. “For the dwarf,” he explained when Legolas’s brows rose. “Has he begun to burn the furniture?”

“No. He would not. And he is not so ravenous as that,” Legolas protested.

“No? Let us see what he will finish!” They carried the food in and set it before Gimli, who rose from his bed, grumbling, and sat down to eat.

Lindir eyed the furnishings after the manner of one who is making a careful inventory, then withdrew in haste rather than watch Gimli eat. Legolas took a slice of salted pork from one platter to supplement his own breakfast. Then he watched, torn between dismay and admiration, as Gimli cleared all the plates that had been brought for him and even finished the wine.

“I would not want to insult my host by leaving what was offered,” Gimli said, his face too innocent. 

“Or fail to live up to the standards of your kin?”

“Exactly. That stiff-necked young elf needs taking out of himself.” Gimli stabbed his fork in the direction Lindir had departed. “A little aggravation will do him good.”

Legolas laughed. “Just as it did me?”

“You learn fast.” Gimli downed a last bite of sausage and stood up. “Should I wear my elvish clothing, do you think?”

Legolas laughed. “I have come to prefer the other.” Or nothing. He bit down on the words before they could escape, surprised at himself. 

They went to find Strider, who had also received a visit from Lindir, and was slicing an apple for himself as he sat at his table. Legolas smiled on him. “Gimli and I have been told to wander today while the great confer. I thought you might prove a willing guide, having grown up in this place.”

“I would be glad of it, for Arwen is busy attending her grandmother this morning.” Strider looked at his stained clothing, wry. “And I would be glad of a bath and a change of clothing before I meet her again.”

“We have already found the baths,” Legolas agreed. “But I would not mind visiting them again.”

“I’ll make a dwarf of him yet,” Gimli rumbled with delight. “This elf will learn the comforts of hot water before we are parted!”

Strider laughed and rose, wiping his knife, and they set out. “I think I know of a place that will delight you, but it is a climb from here,” he said to Gimli. 

“That is no trouble.” Gimli and Strider led as Legolas followed. He had expected Gimli to be as out of place and uncomfortable in Rivendell as he had been in his father’s hall, but the dwarf seemed easy. Perhaps it was the comfort of having friends about him. 

They gathered the party’s horses at Strider’s suggestion and journeyed to the southern cliffs, leaving the city and crossing the floods of tumbling water in the foot of the vale. Legolas listened to the birds as they went, glad of their welcoming song; in the heart of the valley spring was not so far away. 

Strider led them up the southern cliff along a well-worn trail that showed the sign of horses. At last they reached a place near the top of the cliff where wind whistled down from the mountains and took the warmth from the sunlight. There they found a building long and square, with a thick chimney that released transparent wavelets of heat and a slight smoke, which blew away without a trace. 

“A smithy!” Gimli exclaimed in delight, seeing horses nestled in stalls, some waiting to be shod.

“A proper forge, though a small one. Some elves of Rivendell delight in the craft of metalworking. They have great skill, having practiced their craft since the first age,” Strider said. “Here it will be that--” he paused and a shadow passed over his eyes. “I have brought work for the weaponsmith by the order of lord Elrond,” he amended. 

Legolas thought he understood. “Let us go in,” he said gently.

Strider delivered to the smiths a bundle wrapped in pale green velvet, which whispered with the sounds of broken metal when it was handled. “The lord Elrond says it is time,” he said simply.

“We will undertake this task gladly for your sake, Estel,” an elf accepted the parcel and took it away, handling it with reverence. 

“Be welcome here,” another said, though he gave Gimli a wondering look. “Have you need of any other work of our hands? It is said you will depart again before long, on a journey of peril. We would gladly supply you with weapons or repair those you have.”

When Legolas gave his long knives over to be sharpened, Gimli was persuaded to give up his weapon as well. “Have you throwing axes?” He asked. “A pair of those would not go amiss.”

“I will see what we can provide,” the elf handed their weapons to an assistant, who took them away and began to hone Legolas’s blades on a turning wheel. “We rarely use such, but there may be something tucked in storage from days long past.”

Gimli cast a longing look at the forge and anvil, where a craftsman was beating the dents out of a piece of plate with a rounded hammer. “You work in metal as well as leather?”

“We prefer to combine the two to save weight. That pauldron will join to a leather breastplate and gorget.” 

“You might reinforce leather with scale and save some weight while gaining strength.” Gimli picked up a bit of light metal. “Such would work better with mithril, I confess, for it is lighter than iron or steel, if hard to get.”

“We have little of that, pulling what we have into wire for embellishment and heraldry.”

“My people do the same in these days, since we may mine no more. But for the armor of kings, we use some of our precious stores.”

Legolas laughed softly to Strider. “Here we may linger long while they talk and argue smithcraft and forging,” he said.

Strider smiled. “The dwarf is as happy here as I have seen him.” He pulled at Legolas’s sleeve, drawing him outside. “When he emerges, he will be covered with ash and soot, ready to go to the baths.” 

“These elves accept him more easily than those of the Greenwood or even of Lórien.” Legolas paused. “Except for Lindir, whom I fear has not forgotten the company of Thorin.” 

“I think these elves are easy with him because Gimli no longer mistrusts them so much himself,” Strider mused. “He speaks to Arvegil with no thought of race, only their shared love of this craft.”

“He is changed much since meeting the lady of the Galadhrim.”

“Yes,” Strider agreed. “He is changed much since I met him. As are you, I think.”

Legolas raised a brow. “Am I so changed?”

Gimli came bustling out, looking for them, his face eager. “The smith has given me leave to use his tools,” he said, his voice glad. “I have seen how elves love jewels and adornment. Legolas, what think you of this?” He held forth two bits of parchment with rough drawings on each. After a moment of puzzlement Legolas realized they were meant to show elven ears with adornments of wire twined along their curve. 

“This one you could wear and remove at will, but it might fall off unnoticed, and it would not be well-suited to battle. This other is meant to be permanent…. but you will not want that.” Gimli’s face fell and he began to withdraw his hand, but Legolas stopped him. The drawing showed an elegant helix of wires piercing the shell of the ear like climbing vines. Captive beads twined in the inner loops. It was fluid and graceful, the design elegant and clean. Gimli had marked well the jewelry he had seen upon elves, and had matched its style. Added to the dwarvish love of piercing, the elvish curves had become something all their own.

“Make it,” Legolas said softly. “Then I will let you put it on me.”

“I will make it for the left ear so it will not hinder your draw,” Gimli answered him, and Legolas smiled, meeting his eyes. Their gazes held for a long moment, and Legolas felt his heart warm within him.

“I must measure you,” Gimli said, and took him by the hand, drawing him into the smithy where calipers awaited.

“Give him wire of mithril,” Legolas heard Strider murmur to Arvegil as they entered and Gimli set to work. “And such beads or gems as he wants. He will craft a jewel for the Prince of the Greenwood. Set the cost to my purse.”

“There will be no cost for this,” Arvegil said just as softly. “I would gladly see him work his craft, the first dwarf to lift a hammer in an elf’s smithy since Narvi walked the land.”

Gimli fussed over Legolas, very much in his element. “Move your hair aside, that it will not be in the way. I must measure every part of the ear precisely so the wires will not tug or bind. May I?”

“Yes.”

Strider lifted his brows as Gimli reached to touch Legolas’s ear, and Arvegil turned his gaze away, polite. Legolas knew there would be much talk of this, though Gimli would not realize what he did any more than Legolas had when he tried to dry the dwarf’s beard. 

Let there be talk. 

Gimli’s fingertips were blunt but gentle, tracing the curve and point of his ear. Legolas drew a breath and held it as the fine hairs rose all over his body. Metal calipers touched him and the dwarf wrote and drew, then measured again and again. Legolas closed his eyes and sat still, feeling the dwarf test his ears for the thickness of lobe and cartilage, their pliancy, their shape. 

He could feel eyes on them, so he gave no sign of discomposure. The dwarf had allowed someone to touch his genitals for this; it was a thing of craft, as if a healer worked his art. A healer might touch anywhere that was needed; this need be nothing more than that.

But it was, for Gimli was his friend. 

“It would be better if I cast your ear in wax. But there is no bone where I will work, so I can do well enough without.” Gimli finished, and his fingers slid tenderly along the curve from point to lobe a last time, an unnecessary journey that made Legolas shiver-- a caress, without doubt. Arvegil’s eyes went wide, his expression a study in startled amazement.

“Ticklish, are you?” The dwarf laughed softly. “Sensitive.”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed, breathless. The stroke of Gimli’s fingers had wakened his skin all over.

“You will be more so when I finish-- at least, after it has healed. That is the reward of a piercing, master elf!”

Legolas watched as Gimli heated a slender mandrel form, then took it to the forge to heat, then shaped it at the anvil, stretching it and thinning it, curving it to match the outermost rim Legolas’s ear and giving it the varying thickness he desired, careful to consult his notes, working until he was satisfied. 

He would not have thought the dwarf’s broad hands capable of such delicacy, but Gimli took mithril wire and wrapped it around the form, muttering to himself as he bent it. One piece, then another, took shape in careful curves. Gimli grunted with satisfaction and took up tools to work the ends, forming a hinge where they might lock together, then filing it smooth with paper covered with fine-grained sand. He beat the end of one wire thin and flat and smoothed the edges, then bored a hole in that end with an augur.

Arvegil returned then, carrying a box of jeweled beads. Gimli studied them, then made his choice, pouring the contents of one compartment into his hand. He sorted through them, choosing some and discarding others. “These, I think. What think you, Legolas?”

The stones in Gimli’s hand were the fresh and vibrant green of malachite, delicately veined: half a dozen small beads and a teardrop pendant. They were already pierced with holes, ready to lace onto a necklace or coronet.

“They are beautiful,” Legolas whispered with reverence; Gimli had chosen well for him without error or need for asking. 

“Hold them while I set the wire.” Gimli took the delicate lacings and set them on a tray with a few scraps of wire, then eased it over the heart of the fire in the box of a nearby furnace. “This is the glory of mithril-- that it is pliant until tempered, and may be worked with ease, but when it is done it will not bend or flex under the strength of hands. It may be broken, but only by great force.” He watched the wire with a keen eye. “I must heat it neither swiftly or unevenly, nor too much, or it will warp.”

Legolas waited as Gimli worked, sweat gleaming on the dwarf’s forehead as he looked into the eye of the forge. He withdrew the wires several times to turn them and test the scraps, and finally pronounced himself satisfied, letting them sit near the edge of the forge, cooling them in slow stages until he picked them up in the palm of his hand. He tested the fit of the sharp tips to ensure they hinged together, polished the wires with a cloth until they gleamed, then took off his oversized leather apron and came to Legolas.

“I will put this on you later, elf,” he said softly. “Take them now; they will not bend.”

They tucked the jewels in a little velvet bag Arvegil provided, then took their sharpened weapons.

“These axes have been found for you,” Arvegil said at last, and held two axe-heads out in his hands. They were bright steel, undecorated. “They are well made and balanced. Tell us how you would have them set and I can have them sent to your lodging.”

“I will come back tomorrow, if I may, and fashion handles for them myself.” Gimli bowed low. “You have my gratitude for your kindness and generosity. _Hannon le. Le fael_ ,” he said carefully, glancing to Strider for approval, and Legolas smiled, realizing the young man must have tutored him so he might speak in politeness to the lady.

Arvegil matched Gimli’s bow in grace and courtesy. “I will welcome your return, and I am curious to see the results of your working.” He glanced at Legolas, the polite smoothness of his face hinting at the depth of his curiosity. Seeing the finished cuff would not be enough to satisfy, Legolas knew: every elf he met would long to know why such a gift had been offered and accepted.

Let them wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Peredhel_ : Half-elven  
>  _Hannon le_ : Well met/I'm thankful I met you  
>  _Le fael_ : You are generous


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas receives a new adornment and Aragorn's lineage is revealed.
> 
> Trigger warning: graphic images of piercing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the absolutely incredible [Ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) (http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/)!

They took their horses, who had been freshly shod and waited in their stalls, chewing oats. The beasts were restive, picking their feet up gaily as they descended. Legolas returned them to their paddock on the green, then joined Strider and Gimli for a bath.

This time when they went inside the steam bath, he chose to remain without, reclining in a clear pool by himself. Once more he needed time to settle his mind alone. He could hear their talk if he tried-- Aragorn’s admiration of Gimli’s ink and metal, met with Gimli’s eagerness to explain. Aragorn was more bold than Legolas, asking many questions about the piercings. It was a thing for friends, then; he could hear the pleasure in Gimli’s boasting as he described both the procedure and the pains. 

He wondered if the dwarf’s cock filled again for Aragorn’s eyes, going rosy and taut as it strained upward. Legolas swallowed, his throat dry. A draught of wine would not go amiss. Perhaps it was the raw smoke from the forge that gave him thirst.

Though Legolas listened, Gimli did not name his marks of mourning before Strider, and that made the elf sit straighter in the water, pride and pleasure mingling in him. He had been trusted with more of Gimli’s secrets than the man. 

They went to join their company when they had finished, and shared food together within the house of Elrond. Arwen served them, and Legolas noticed she gave Strider many choice tidbits, much to her father’s chagrin. The choice of Luthien might befall her indeed, he judged, marking the way her eyes lingered on the young man. 

He ate sparingly and drank a goblet of wine, but he was not easy in himself, his attention wandering again and again. Their plans were simple enough. In only a few days’ time, he and Gimli and Strider would ride west to the Shire and fetch Bilbo Baggins back to join in their counsels.

They had long finished their meal and dark was come when the meeting ended. “I will summon representatives from all the lands, and whoever will come may join our quest to defeat Sauron and return him to the void,” Elrond laid his palms upon the table and rose. “Now take up your rightful name, Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Elendil. The sword that was broken is to be reforged, and you will set forth on your quest to claim the kingship of Gondor, and to help in throwing down the great enemy of all. Only when that is done may you ask that which I see in your mind, for until that day comes, it will not be granted.”

Arwen bent her head and closed her eyes in sorrow while Gimli gave a wordless exclamation and stared at Strider with new respect. Legolas smiled and laid a comforting hand on Aragorn’s wrist.

“It may yet come to pass. Beren Erchamion did not fail in his quest,” Legolas said.

“At what terrible cost?” Aragorn answered heavily. Rising, he took Arwen’s hand. “I will walk you to your bower, my lady.”

All present took their leave, and Legolas too slipped away with Gimli following close at his side. 

“I should not be surprised by this news, yet I am.” Gimli’s boots rang on the smooth marble flagstones. “The heir of Elendil? No wonder he travels with the wizard. His destiny is both great and terrible.”

“As ours may be, for we travel with him.”

“Aye. But I would not think of that tonight. We have our own concerns.” Gimli was eager to try his handiwork, Legolas saw. 

They went to their rooms, passing the Hall of Fire, where singing and talk gladdened the night. Legolas wondered if that singing would falter when he entered with the dwarf’s ornament in his ear, with the dwarf at his side. He smiled at the thought in spite of himself, feeling just a little nervous, even a bit shy at the thought of the dwarf's skillful fingers on his ear.

“Why would you do this, elf?” Gimli asked, abrupt, his eyes seeking Legolas’s in the moonlight. “For decoration?”

“Because I have grown to understand an important truth, and I would mark it down so I do not forget,” Legolas answered him. “I will no longer be so hasty to judge someone a beast because his customs are different from my own. I will not anticipate causing death with pleasure, or deal death at all for no good reason.” He let a smile touch his lips. “And for decoration as well, because what you have made is beautiful, and as an elf, I am a vain and shallow creature.”

Gimli threw back his head and roared with laughter.

The dwarf readied himself when they arrived, setting out the wires and jewels with care, lighting the lamps, and mixing a little packet of salt into water. “This is for washing afterward,” he said. “We will clean you first with strong spirits.”

Legolas sat obediently, pulling aside his hair, and waited, trying not to reveal his nervousness as the dwarf soaked a cloth in distilled spirits.

"May I?" Gimli asked, his voice a gentle rumble, and Legolas knew he blushed as he nodded permission.

Gimli slowly wiped his ear, running the rough wet fabric along the rim, dipping inside with care to cleanse the path of the wire, even where the ear curled over. The alcohol cooled swiftly when he had passed. Legolas tried to make himself sit still without reacting, but it was difficult. He knew he breathed too quickly, his face burning, his belly alight with a sensation he had never felt before.

“Your ears are the same to you as my beard is to me.” Gimli observed, his voice quiet. "Or even more so."

“Yes.” Legolas confessed on a breath.

“I could guess it from the look upon Arvegil’s face when I touched you in the smithy. You should have spoken.”

“You did not shy from your piercings, though they too are in a place that is not freely given for others to touch.”

“I did not.” Gimli remained steady. “This will hurt, elf. Perhaps a great deal. Can you be still?”

"Yes," Legolas promised. The prospect of pain from the wires piercing his flesh did not disturb him nearly as much as the feelings in his heart and body when he looked upon Gimli.

Legolas held himself perfectly motionless as the needle-tip of the wire pierced his flesh and pushed through. Gimli’s fingers, deft and agile despite their size, threaded the first bead onto the wire, then he pressed again. 

It hurt more as the wire worked its way up, pressing through the cartilage of his ear. Legolas closed his eyes against the pain, but he made no sound as the winding wire slid upward and Gimli carefully captured a new bead at every loop, his hands gentle but firm, purely focused on what he did, unflinching.

“That one is done,” he said at last, with relief. “You did well. Now for the other. I fear this one will be more painful, but I will be as quick as I may.” 

He set the end of the second wire with care, then pressed it in and wound it upward. He was not wrong; the second wire jostled the first, making it ache and burn in addition to the new pains as the dwarf's strong fingers pressed it through the tough cartilage. Legolas sank his teeth in his lip, but remained very still as Gimli twined it with the loops and curves of the first wire, threading on beads until it settled in its final place. He hinged the wires at the top of Legolas’s ear, fitting them together. Legolas could hear his own breath hissing through his nose, but other than that, he made no sound or protest, though the pain was bitterly sharp. 

“Bravely done,” Gimli murmured and withdrew his hands. “Your fortitude is worthy of a dwarf.” Legolas shivered with pleasure, the motion making his hair slide over his shoulder-- and he held his breath as Gimli lifted his hair tenderly and tucked it back, arranging it so it would not tangle with the cuff. 

Art by [Ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) (http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) 

Legolas remained still, not trusting his voice to speak. He had marked how the dwarf avoided touching his hair, just as he had forbidden Legolas to handle his beard. Was this the way Gimli granted Legolas permission to touch him freely? Legolas's heart beat hard in his chest, fierce and needful, like the wings of a bird fluttering against the bars of its cage, demanding its freedom. ....He thought it might be so, but he would not venture to caress Gimli's beard until he was sure.

“If you feel any snags or pokes in the wearing, tell me and I will sand them away,” Gimli said, his breath warm on Legolas’s skin. He threaded the teardrop pendant on a ring of silver and attached it to the lower end of the second wire. “If you do not like it, I will take it out again and your ear will soon heal.” He sighed, his voice hushed. “Let me wash you, then you can see.”

Gimli bathed him with salt and water, and Legolas could see his blood on the cloth, but not much of it. Then Gimli led him to the wall, where a silver mirror hung. He tilted his head and looked at the gleaming beads and mithril twining through his flesh, like ivy wed to the young, smooth branch of a tree. They looked strange and beautiful, the green and silver a perfect complement to his pale skin. His ear ached with a sharp and nagging pain, but that was already ebbing from its peak.

“I like it very much,” he said, touching the wires with one fingertip. He felt almost too shy to speak the words. “Thank you.”

“None of that,” Gimli tugged his elbow, pulling his hand away. “You’ll make it fester if you toy with it.”

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“I think so. Wash your ear often with water and salt, and it will heal faster. And do not sleep upon that side for a time. If you lie down at all.” Bluster had re-entered Gimli’s voice as he regained his composure. 

“Let us go out to the Hall of Fire together now,” Legolas said.

“Would you shock your kinsmen so swiftly?”

“I would. I desire to arouse their envy,” Legolas turned away from the mirror to look in Gimli’s eyes. “And whet their curiosity sharper than the edges of my knives, yet leave it unanswered.”

“Be careful, or you may start a fashion.”

Legolas laughed. “A fashion for jewelry, or one for dwarven companions? It matters not, for in either case, mine will be the first and best of all.” He reached and drew Gimli out after him by one hand. When voices faltered in the Hall of Fire, they stood proudly together in the door and did not turn away. Heads turned to study them, then politely turned away to resume the song. Throughout the evening lingering gazes returned to Legolas again and again, though none dared speak. Many asked him to dance, and some he accepted, but he held himself straight and tall, as befitted a prince, and gave no answer to the unspoken questions behind their looks.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn believes he knows a secret, and the three companions are dispatched from Rivendell to fetch Bilbo Baggins.

Though he accompanied Legolas to the Hall, Gimli said little, sitting to one side drinking wine and listening to the songs. If he tried, could still feel the fine velvet of Legolas's ear against his fingertips and the elf's glorious golden hair gathered like combed silk in his hand. His eyes flashed with pride and he preened whenever someone looked on his work, which happened often. More than a few curious eyes sought him, as well, and turned away when he returned the gaze. 

Aragorn joined him after a time, watching Legolas walk the lady Arwen through a stately pavane.

“Which is more fair, the prince of Mirkwood or the jewels that adorn him?” Aragorn murmured to Gimli. “If I had not seen with my own eyes how much you admire the lady Galadriel, I might wonder at the pair of you, much as these others do.”

“Let them talk,” Gimli growled. “I care not.”

“Do not be dismayed. None who have seen you with the lady could fail to know where your heart lies!” Aragorn attempted to reassure him.

Gimli shifted, uncomfortable, and stared into his wine. He would say nothing to Aragorn of who might stir his heart, but he could not let the man think wrongly of his intentions toward Galadriel. “She is not one I would dare aspire to court. Besides, she is wed.” He dragged his wet thumb about the rim of the goblet, making a hollow, clear note rise into the air. In truth, he felt no desire for Galadriel; rather, she made him feel deep respect, awe, and admiration-- perhaps more than friendship, but not so base or deep a thing as lust. 

“It is obvious you are lovesick. Who could it be for but the lady of Lórien?” Aragorn teased, then gentled his tone. “And in truth I understand, for Arwen is Galadriel’s granddaughter, and has inherited her beauty. How could anyone look at such a queen and fail to worship her?”

“I know not.” That was truth, at least-- he adored the queen of Lothlórien, but from a distance, as though she were a star. She was more beautiful than any queen he had ever beheld.

“Arvegil does not know of your regard for the lady, I fear. He has not been silent on the matter of Legolas’s new jewel.”

“It is an ear-cuff, no more.” Gimli scowled. “A trinket and a novelty. When we return, these things will have sprouted like lichen on half the elves of Rivendell.”

“That I do not doubt.” Aragorn laughed softly. “But it means more to Legolas than that, I think.”

“He told me his thoughts.” Gimli said, sobering. “He spoke of how he had judged me a beast for my differences, and how he once thought of killing dwarves for pleasure. He gave me to know the ornament marks his penitence.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “I long for my pipe, and if I had my way I would go, but for him I will stay, and rejoice that he is happy with the change.” 

“It seems to me you too have learned?” Aragorn phrased it carefully, a delicate question.

“Aye. Less gracefully than he.” He remembered his own shame at the speculations in Dale, and his fear of the wraith’s vision. It had not left him unmarked. “But then, my folk were not so kind as these.”

“He is not their close kin. He would encounter more difficulty in his father’s halls, I think.”

Gimli nodded, his eyes hooded. “And I would fear for my life there, if Thranduil thought as Arvegil. Legolas brought me away from his father’s realm in part because Thranduil desired my death. He is honorable; that was done before we ever felt friendship for one another.” He glared at Aragorn. “But I am not allowed to make any such covenant. Do not tell the elf!”

Aragorn spread his hands in hasty surrender. “Not a word.” 

Gimli gave him a final warning look then turned his attention to the dance, which had changed, growing swift and light. Legolas darted through it like a silver fish in a swift and rushing stream. It seemed to Gimli the Prince of the Greenwood was more lively and graceful than all the others of his kin, and that a light shone through him, born of joy.

*****

They made ready to ride for the Shire, renewing their provisions and repairing or replacing their gear. The day soon came when they were ready, and they brought their horses to the edge of the city, where they found Gandalf, Galadriel, and Elrond waiting.

“Now you set forth on the first great test of your birthright,” Elrond addressed Aragorn in solemn tones. Gimli’s eyes went to Arwen, who stood nearby, her eyes fixed on the young ranger. He cleared his throat, longing to be on the road, and adjusted the new throwing axes hanging from his belt. He was grateful to Arvegil for his courtesy and generosity, but he wished the tongues of elves less ponderous, that they might be well away before nightfall.

The lady stood by, waiting for her turn, and when Elrond was satisfied he had heaped enough warnings and instructions upon Aragorn’s shoulders, she stood forth to take her leave of them. 

“Though I am not in my own homeland, I would not have you depart empty-handed.” She smiled on the three. “To you, Aragorn, I would give this.” She offered him a pouch. “Here are such medicines and physics as I might prepare for your journey through the darkness that lies ahead of us all. Use them well, and do not let your hopes fade.” She passed on to Legolas next. “And for you, Prince of the Greenwood, a bow of the Galadhrim, the very one I carried with me for defense as I left our land. It is made for shooting far and true, and will serve you well when you are far from the woods of your home.” 

She stepped before Gimli last, and her smile was so bright it dazzled him. “What would a dwarf ask of the elves?” She murmured. “Name your desire, son of Durin.” 

Gimli flushed at her words. “Truly, I can ask you for nothing, for my cup is full. It has been enough to see the lady of Lórien and to journey with her, and to labor for her convenience and defense. That is an honor no dwarf deserves.” He bowed low. “I would trade my time at your side for nothing, my lady-- not for all the riches of the Dwarrowdelf would I trade it.”

Galadriel reached out her slender hand and touched his cheek. 

“Never let it be said dwarves are greedy and grasping,” she murmured. “Nor cowardly and mean, for you have a pure, valiant heart, _elvellon_. I have not forgotten how you shielded me in the High Pass.” Gimli blushed, ducking his head. “Name your wish,” she commanded, her touch gentle as mist upon the petals of a rose. 

“I do not dare-- yet if I must, I would name a single strand of your hair,” Gimli breathed against his will. “If it were given, I would make it an heirloom of my house and set it in imperishable crystal, so that sun and star might shine always in the heart of the mountain, and my own heart need never be darkened by fading of memory.”

The assembled elves gasped, murmuring startlement and outrage. Gimli flushed deep crimson, ashamed, but the lady held up her hand to quell them. 

“How could I refuse such a gallant request, when I myself commanded him to speak?” She took a dagger from Elrond’s hand and separated out the long fine strands of her shining hair, severing three from near her temple. A whisper arose and hushed again while she braided them loosely together with her own hands, making a long shining filament that she coiled and placed into Gimli’s palm.

“Lockbearer, wherever thou goest, my heart goes with thee,” she bent forward and set a kiss upon his brow, then whispered low by his ear, so low none other might hear. “But have a care to lay thine axe to the right tree!” She withdrew, her eyes shining with mischief, tilting her head ever so slightly toward the side where Legolas stood, absorbed in admiring his new bow.

Gimli reddened even more, if it were possible, so much he felt his cheeks might burst into flame. He bowed before her a last time, so low his beard brushed the ground.

Grooms led their horses forth, and Aragorn mounted. Legolas helped Gimli up, then settled before him. His hair was braided snugly in the riding style he had adopted on Gimli’s behalf, and his jeweled ear cuff gleamed in the morning sunlight.

“I will travel to Orthanc to see if we can take the measure of Saruman,” Gandalf said. “Elrond will look for you to return by early summer. If you have not arrived by the time I return here, I will set forth to find you myself.”

“We will return, and we will bring the halfling.” Aragorn bowed his head and turned away.

Legolas clucked to his horse, and they set forth on the western road. “Now I have taken my worst wound at this parting,” Gimli murmured. “For I have looked my last on that which is fairest.”

“Do not grieve, Gimli,” Legolas told him, kind. “The lady honors you more than you may know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Elvellon_ : Elf friend


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions locate Bilbo Baggins and attempt to convince him to return with them to Rivendell.

The three friends rode westward slowly through poor weather, sleet and snow, wind and rain. The lands were not friendly, and river fords proved dangerous. More than once they had to fight orcs, but these were mountain goblins, and they did not come in large enough numbers to pose a serious threat. 

Legolas soon grew deadly with his new bow, and Gimli learned patiently how best to manage the balance of his throwing-axes. Aragorn honed his skills with both sword and bow, and the three took pleasure in learning to fight well together. They were accomplished enough at hunting they were able to supplement their stores with meat and did not go hungry, and when they had time to spare after traveling, camping, and foraging, they practiced with their weapons, honing their skills and learning to complement one another as they fought together. 

Though Gimli thought often upon the lady’s final words, he spoke of them to no one. He rode behind Legolas with his hands resting the elf’s waist or even tucked his thumbs into Legolas’s belt, if the going was uncertain. Legolas sang often, but he also seemed strangely thoughtful, though his ear healed quickly. Gimli often watched the jewels of his own crafting sparkle in the light as they rode, and they gave him satisfaction even when the elf was silent. 

Nothing seemed to daunt Aragorn, who had been part of several elvish hunting parties in these lands-- not the threat of goblins, nor the howling of wolves by night, nor rain and sleet upon the road. It was hard to credit they were part of an urgent quest against evil when the days passed without pursuit or trouble, but Gimli felt an itch growing between his shoulder blades, and he knew the peace would not last.

“A shadow is growing on my mind,” Legolas said one day as they rode through a dismal expanse of swamp, deviled by biting flies that kept Gimli busy miserably slapping at his exposed skin. “Some evil will is aware of us, and it broods on our errand.”

“It has grown since we passed the Weather Hills,” Aragorn agreed. “I fear our journey back to Rivendell will not prove as easy as we had hoped.”

“Do you think it is the wizard Saruman?”

“I think not, so far from Isengard.” Aragorn shrugged at Legolas. “Gandalf and I talked long in Rivendell. There is much we cannot be sure of when it comes to our foes. Khamûl should have pursued us from Dol Guldur-- he should have sought you and Gimli twice over-- yet he did not. The wizard believes he is under orders to remain where he is, but those orders may be changed.” Aragorn shook his head. “We must hope they are not, and that we do not have to fight the wraith-- or more than one. They can command any fell creature they encounter, mustering a host of foes against us.”

“The halfling is a clever and brave creature by all accounts,” Gimli said. “He faced the dragon in its lair and stood firm against the anger of Thorin Oakenshield. He will not be easily overawed.”

“His experience may be a good thing. We will arrive soon in Bree. From there it is a short journey to the Shire.” Aragorn glanced about the wide, flat land, where nothing stirred but a few birds among the mist. “If we can persuade him to accompany us in haste, we may yet pass back to Imladris while our foes still delay over their counsels.”

They pressed on, stopping briefly in Bree to re-provision and enjoy the luxury of a night beneath a roof and hot food they did not have to shoot or cook themselves. Then they pressed on down the road, entering the Shire through the Hay Gate and crossing the Brandywine Bridge.

They drew curious stares as they rode through Frogmorton toward Bywater, especially the elf. “These folk have not seen the likes of you in along years,” Aragorn murmured to Legolas. “Elves pass through the Shire as they travel west, but they lie quiet in the woods by day and travel late at night. Dwarves are more commonly seen, for there are mines in the Blue Mountains, and dwarves often pass through the Shire on the East Road.”

“If you’re looking for Bilbo Baggins, you’ll find him up the Hill in Hobbiton,” a sharp-voiced female directed them onward when they inquired the way, pausing in hanging out her washing. “I’ve never seen such queer folk as he brings about!” She pointed her finger westward, evidently eager to have them away.

“We thank you,” Aragorn told her with grave courtesy. They rode on, asking at any crossroads and slowly winding their way deeper into the Shire until they mounted the hill to Bag End, the front door nestled behind its cozy garden, directly beneath a spreading oak.

A halfling sat in the garden, unlit pipe in hand, drowsing in the early spring sun. He wore a well-tailored blue jacket and a fine burgundy waistcoat, both of rich fabrics, and his pipe was richly carved. He showed every indication of having benefitted from the reclamation of Erebor but one: his small face was creased as if with long worry, his mouth set in lines of discontent. 

“Master Bilbo Baggins,” Aragorn spoke, and the halfling’s eyes flew open. 

“Estel of Imladris, the _Dúnadan!_ ” Bilbo straightened up at once, blinking sleep from his eyes. “And an elf. I know you-- Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm? Yes, I remember your face. And--” his face lost animation, his pleasant smile freezing on his lips. “A dwarf. Of Erebor? Yes, of course.”

He did not offer Gimli his service. “Well. How unusual.” He clapped his hands, rousing himself from stillness. “Come in by all means, Estel, and bring your companions with you. I think I can make shift to feed you all.” He turned to go in, then spun on his heel, stabbing a short, accusing finger at Gimli. “But even if you are Durin himself reborn, you are not to throw any of the china or to scrape your muddy feet on the furniture. Do I make myself understood?”

“Perfectly, Master Baggins.” Gimli bowed and followed his companions in.

“ _Gi nathlam hí, Thranduilion_ ,” Bilbo said to Legolas as they went in. 

“ _Pedig edhellen_?” Legolas sounded so pleased Gimli could hardly keep his scowl at being excluded from their conversation.

“Just enough to get myself in trouble. Please have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.” Bilbo avoided Gimli’s eye, but other than that he acted the perfect host, scuttling about making tea and toasting bread, then bringing cakes and biscuits from the pantry.

“We bring word from Gandalf and the lord Elrond,” Aragorn told him when they had settled in behind full plates and washed the dust of the road from their throats with small beer. “A council is to be held in Imladris, and your presence is requested. It concerns a matter of great import, and you are desired as a representative of your people and their interests.” 

“Then you should go to the Thain in Tuckborough.” Bilbo shook his head. “I’ve had quite enough adventures.” 

“The Thain no longer serves as a royal representative of the Shire, and has not done so since the line of kings failed in Gondor.” Aragorn bent forward. “And the king, if there were one, would not want his aid in this. You are personally concerned in this matter.”

Bilbo leaned back, giving Aragorn a calculating look that said he knew as much of the young ranger’s lineage as anyone. “What, am I wanted to advise the rulers of all the lands to make war for the deposition of the mad king of Erebor?” His voice fell, bitter, and his hand rose to rub his throat, as if remembering pain. “No, thank you.”

“Nothing of the kind. This matter touches the dwarves, but no more so than any other land or race in Middle Earth.” 

Gimli finally caught Bilbo’s eye, and Bilbo sighed. “Begging your pardon, Master Dwarf. You have not even told me who you are.”

“I am Gimli. I claim no family and offer no service, for I am sworn in service to King Thranduil of the Greenwood.”

“However in the world did that happen?” Bilbo blinked with surprise, but gave Gimli no pause to answer. “I knew your father well. I would have said him a fond farewell, had I been given the chance.” He laid his hands flat upon the table. “It was rather difficult to remember pleasant courtesies while being dangled over the ramparts, I confess, and after that I never saw any of them to speak with again. Do carry him my regards when you all leave.” He stood and tidied away his plate with an air of decision, plainly hoping that would be soon, if not immediately.

Aragorn sighed. “Our meeting is called by the White Council. They would share their concerns and make policy regarding the Necromancer, the sorcerer once known as Sauron. All peoples should be represented in this meeting to help resolve upon a way to vanquish him, for if he rises again, all who live in Middle Earth will suffer the tyranny of his rule.”

Bilbo paused over the sink, his knuckles going white on the countertop. “Sauron.” His voice lost its bluster and became very small. “How am I ‘personally concerned’ there? That is more serious than representing the Shire in a debate over plans in a battle in which we would take little or no part.”

Aragorn hesitated. “Your bravery and cleverness in the retaking of Erebor, your opposition to Azog, Bolg, and the Great Goblin, your very friendship with Gandalf, Thranduil, and Elrond-- you have aligned yourself against the enemy, and you have raised his awareness of the valor of a forgotten people. If his eye falls on the Shire, it will be in large part due to your heroic efforts against the dragon.”

Bilbo stared at him, white-faced, and set his jaw. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dúnadan_ : Man of the west  
>  _Gi nathlam hí, Thranduilion_ : You are welcome here, Thranduil's son  
>  _Pedig edhellen?_ : Do you speak Elvish?


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions depart from the Shire with Bilbo, but learn they may be pursued.

Bilbo embarked at once on a flurry of packing and arrangements. Sauron or no, he absolutely refused to leave without seeing to the legal disposition of his home, but it took time to move the rusty wheels of Hobbiton’s legal system. 

If not for Bilbo’s wariness of him, Gimli would have been quite content. The country was pleasant, meals in Bag End were well-made, lavish, and frequent, and hobbits produced some of the best pipe-weed and ale Gimli had ever tasted. But the halfling was quiet, rather oppressed, and did not befriend new folk easily-- or even mingle with his own in perfect comfort. 

“Why is the halfling’s presence so wanted, Aragorn?” Gimli asked softly while the busy hobbit was occupied, digging through his linen closets for some stray scrap he would not do without. “What may he do against the enemy?”

“Gandalf would not tell me all he knows.” Aragorn answered, his voice low. By the window, Legolas turned to listen. “But the creature Sméagol named Bilbo and cursed him, and when pressed, he told us of a trinket he believed the halfling stole. Gandalf thinks it may be of great importance, but he cautioned me against mentioning it to any, most especially our host, if it may be avoided. He wishes to do that on his own.”

The last will and testament governing the disposition of Bag End in the case of Bilbo’s death or extended absence arrived by post, but had yet to be duly signed and witnessed. “I shall have to gather the required signatures.” Bilbo rummaged in his desk and came up in triumph, brandishing a quill and a bottle of red ink. “But we can file this in the morning and be off after second breakfast, if we must.”

“Tonight would be better,” Aragorn said. “The wizard bade us return by early summer, and we may yet be delayed on the road.”

“The registry in Bywater won’t open until morning.” Bilbo folded the parchment, creasing it tightly with sharp motions of his hands, and went out. 

He is not happy,” Legolas remarked, looking out through the small, uneven panes of glass into the garden and watching Bilbo pass down the hill. “A burden weighs on his heart that has little to do with our coming.”

“He watched Thorin, his companion and friend, driven mad by dragon sickness, then lost him to it,” Aragorn said. “That could not have been pleasant.”

Bilbo had lost more than a friendly companion, Gimli thought with sorrow. His father had spoken to him once of the courting gift Thorin had presented to Bilbo, a priceless corselet of mithril. The halfling had it yet, though Thorin had repented and named the gift too good for him upon their dreadful parting. Gimli felt his friends' eyes on him, seeking confirmation of their guesses. He tried to choose his words with care. “The rule of the new King under the Mountain has been pleasant for no-one.” Gimli thought of Glóin’s confessions to him regarding Thorin. Despite his vast increase in riches, his father regretted ever marching to Erebor. Gimli thought many of the company of Thorin might say the same, if pressed. The king was much changed. He would say no more.

“There is an anger in him that dismays me.” Legolas tilted his head. “He has a bitterness that does not belong in this comfortable home and pleasant land.”

“Go out and keep an eye on him-- without letting him know it, if you can-- while we finish here,” Aragorn asked, and Legolas went. Gimli and Aragorn set about their final packing, placing all the bags and supplies by the door, while Legolas went to Bywater to fetch their horses. When he returned with them just before dusk, he also led two sturdy young ponies.

“They were on sale in the market as a wagon team, and I purchased them.” He looked pleased. “Now you will not have to ride always behind me, Gimli.”

Gimli pretended to a joy he did not feel. Would the elf change his braiding once more, as if it had never been? “This news is a great relief,” he lied. “No longer will I have to crane my head and ask what may be seen.”

“Bilbo had gathered his witnesses in the market and when I set out we walked together.” Legolas glanced down the road. “He has stopped down the row to speak with his neighbor, and will be with us shortly.”

Bilbo arrived soon after, huffing a little to himself. “Young Master Hamfast says strange folk have been asking after me,” he remarked, patting the neck of his pony. “Oh, these are good beasts.”

“Strange folk? That would be us, no doubt,” Gimli said.

“In fact, no,” Bilbo laughed. “It was a tall man-- one of the big folk, even taller than yourself, Aragorn-- clad in black, he said, riding a black horse, with a bloody great sword on his hip. Talking in a whisper, or more of a hiss really, asking for Baggins of the Shire. Old Farmer Brock spoke of it in the market, and Hamfast overheard his talk. Just last night, it was. Scared Brock half out of his wits. The lad said he was white as a sheet.”

Gimli glanced to Legolas, who was already halfway to the fence, staring keenly up and down along the road. Aragorn rose in haste as well. “Can you leave your document for Hobson Gamgee to file in the registry?”

“Hm, yes, well, I suppose. The mayor won’t like it much, but it’s all properly signed and witnessed. Hobson isn’t one of the signatures, seeing as how he can’t read or write, so he doesn’t stand to benefit from it being made official-- not that he would know it even if he did! I think they’d take it.”

“Legolas?”

“Nothing may be seen from this place, but if you like, I could go up onto the hill and climb the oak, where I might see farther.”

“No. Load the horses while we take Bilbo’s papers and leave them with the Gamgees. Then we ride.” He hustled Bilbo quickly back along the road.

“Now see here…!” Bilbo protested, but then they were gone.

“The wraith has left Dol Guldur.” Legolas breathed to Gimli, with a certainty that made the hairs at the back of Gimli’s neck prickle. “It follows us.”

He and Legolas loaded the animals in haste, then Legolas trotted through Bag End extinguishing lamps and fires, white billows of steam gushing up through the chimneys into the darkening sky while Gimli watched over their gear.

“Very well then, we’ll ride tonight, if you think it so urgent.” He could hear Bilbo complaining as he trotted up the road at Aragorn’s heels. “But I don’t see why we can’t stay here and have one last night in a nice, soft bed!”

“Lock the door, Bilbo,” Aragorn said, his voice somehow both gentle and brisk. 

They put Bilbo in the middle of the party with Aragorn in the lead and Legolas bringing up the rear. Gimli heeled his pony up next to the hobbit’s as they rode. Bilbo might not like conversing with someone who reminded him so strongly of his former friends, but they had far to journey together.

“I see your mail shirt is still in your pack. Maybe you should put it on when we stop.”

Bilbo scowled at him. “We are still within the borders of the Shire!”

“As far as I can tell, no land’s borders will stop an arrow.” 

Bilbo huffed, but made no more argument. 

“The company of Thorin regretted what happened with the Arkenstone,” Gimli said to him. “I have heard more than one say what you did was well-done, for all your efforts failed. They admired your willingness to trade your share of the hoard for peace.”

Bilbo flashed him a look that mingled resentment and uncertainty. “They did not admire it enough to stand up for me when Thorin would have thrown me from the wall.” 

“Aye.” Gimli bent his head. “And that was wrong of them. But it is hard to defy your king.”

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“And look at the price I have paid.” Gimli tilted his head toward Legolas. “Given to elves for a quarter of my life with no family to call my own, homeless, banished forever from Erebor.”

“Yes. Banishment is hard.” Bilbo swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“Perhaps we each have more in common than it seems. Aragorn has not won the right to claim his homeland yet. Even the elf left his father’s halls without leave, and has no surety of welcome when he returns.” Gimli left their talk at that. The halfling would be friendly or not, as he chose.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions journey eastward, and as they leave settled areas, pursuit makes itself known.

The small company rode through the Shire in quiet haste, the silence of the road broken by bursts of song and laughter from the inns they passed, and by occasional barking dogs. Gimli could not relax, looking from shadow to shadow, oppressed with worry.

“It will come on us in some dark place far from help, unseen.” Legolas drew his horse next to Gimli’s pony. “We must be ready.”

Gimli considered all the long and lonely miles between the Shire and Rivendell, weighing them next to the horror of the wraith’s first brief attack in Dol Guldur. He shuddered. “If only Gandalf or the lady were with us now!”

“We will wish for them many times in the coming days, I think.” Legolas hesitated, tidying his horse’s mane, and Gimli realized the elf could not meet his eyes. “Gimli, do not believe anything it says of me.”

“It will say nothing true of me, either.” Gimli stared straight ahead, his cheeks flushing. “The shadow has nothing of truth in it, only lies and deceit. It will try to tear our company apart in any way it can.”

“That is wisdom. As a dwarf and elf journeying together, we represent a weak point it will seek to target.” 

“Then we will not let it.” Gimli reached up, offering his hand, and the elf clasped it to seal their bargain. He looked on Gimli again, his eyes warm.

“I am uneasy about following the road.” Aragorn called to them. “I think the wraith, finding us gone from Bag End, will try to stop us when we cross the Brandywine. We should cut across country. Is there a ford or ferry, Bilbo?”

“Bucklebury Ferry, but that is a long trek through woods on uncertain paths.”

“Nevertheless, let us try it.”

“Where will we leave the Shire?” Bilbo protested. “The High Hay will keep us in, and if the bridge is watched, the Hay Gate will not be safe, either.”

“The Brandybucks have cut ways through the High Hay that we may use. Elves pass through them when they do not wish to be seen on the east road.” 

They left the road, meaning to cut across the upper part of the Woody End toward Woodhall, crossing the Brandywine and traveling through Bucklebury and on to the High Hay without incident. Gimli began to believe they had eluded the wraith-- or possibly young Hamfast Gamgee was possessed of an overactive imagination.

“This wood is watchful,” Legolas said, his voice echoing in the brooding quiet. “It does not like any who go on two legs. Much less those who carry an axe. We must be wary.”

“It has a bad reputation among the Bucklanders.” Bilbo nodded agreement. “The trees are awake, it is said. Once they encroached on the hay, and Brandybucks entered the forest with axes and fire to drive them back. Since then it is worse, by all accounts.” Gimli was surprised and pleased to see the halfling rouse from his sulks and speak with enthusiasm and authority. 

“Yes, it would be,” Legolas nodded. “There are _huorns_ here-- trees who are half-awake. They are dangerous, with long and bitter memories, and in this place they have no tree shepherds, no onodrim, to guide or govern them. My people do not come to this wood." He looked sober. "I can hear the _huorns_ singing; they would lure us from our way and onto dangerous paths. Let me guide us so we will not go near them.” Legolas passed Aragorn and led the party through the wood, listening with care.

“How may trees be half-awake? Or move from where they are rooted?” Gimli asked the elf, not much liking the notion. 

“Trees may come entirely awake and walk as they will.” Legolas’s answer did not put him at ease. “They may even speak with you, if you have the fortune to meet a tree-shepherd. I have never done so, for they left the Greenwood before I was born, after the shadow rose in the south.”

They left the forest without having to camp beneath its shade and traveled on to Bree, taking the east road for a time. “Better not to cross the Barrow Downs,” Aragorn said, but he would not say why. 

Legolas seemed troubled as they neared the town, gazing around them with constant watchfulness. “The wraith is watching,” he said when Gimli inquired of him. “It will come after we pass beyond this town.”

They were not troubled in Bree or in the Chetwood, but as the marshes closed in about them, the party drew close together, sensing a malevolent will bearing down upon them, as yet unseen.

“Bilbo. Gimli. Mount up and ride upon the horses with us,” Aragorn directed. “We will move faster if the ponies go unladen.”

Neither protested, and Gimli found himself glad to ride behind the elf once more. Though they did not always ride together, Legolas still kept his hair always braided for Gimli’s convenience. Gimli took comfort in studying the golden strands as he rode, feeling the elf’s familiar waist warm and solid beneath his hands. 

The sense of an unseen watcher persisted through the day, and the brooding regard strengthened as night drew near, closing in about them until Gimli felt his skin crawling, as if the wraith crept through the mist at their heels, just far enough away they could not see it, almost near enough to touch. 

It was a terrible, creeping horror, a foul presence that crept around them amidst the rising vapors of the marsh, keeping the fine hairs raised on his arms and at the back of his neck. Bilbo clung close to Aragorn, his eyes closed, his brow pinched in a scowl.

“We will stop now and light a fire.” Aragorn spoke when they reached a long-toppled copse of dead tree trunks that formed a meager shelter. Dusk drew near, and a mist had begun to curl up from the marshy ground. “We must get whatever rest we can.”

"What is this thing that pursues us?" Bilbo dared ask at last, his eyes darting about in fear.

"A _nazgûl_. A minion of Sauron," Aragorn answered him. "It will come in the guise of a man cloaked in black, yet it is not alive. It would strip the bodies from our spirits if it could and drag what remains before its master in the void to endure his torment."

Gimli found he could not bear the thought. His instincts insisted stopping would allow the horror that pursued to catch them up and he feared then it would overwhelm them. However, the bright orange tongues of flame rising from their fire-pit made him feel a little better, keeping a circle of night at bay. Aragorn stared into the dark, his eyes glittering with reflected firelight, and Gimli knew he too felt the smothering fear of the wraith.

Bilbo’s manner concerned him even more. The little halfling hunched with one hand in his pocket, muttering the word " _nazgûl_ " soundlessly to himself as though arguing with a foe unseen. He ate little and spoke to none of his companions.

Legolas alone seemed undaunted, though Gimli could read the signs of tension in him as he looked in all directions through the mist.

“Sleep near by me, with your hands on your weapons,” he told them. “I will know if the wraith comes close, and I will rouse you to fight.”

They did as he bade, Bilbo curling up right at the elf’s feet. Gimli and Aragorn propped themselves against the trunk of a tree at Legolas’s side, and he began to sing softly as they settled.

Gimli’s heart followed the song, which wandered beneath trees tall and fair along sunlit paths and green fields filled with golden flowers, leading him down into sleep. If he knew that serpents lurked among the tree-roots or beneath the stones he passed, he also knew the elf was there to keep them at bay. 

So went the first night of the wraith’s attack, passed in discomfort on sodden ground, propped against the knotted bole of a fallen tree. 

The next night proved worse. Deep in the heart of the marsh, they could locate no shelter and found little dry wood to burn. Without a fire, the shadows pressed in against them, twining about as if to choke them with fear, and the mist from the ground rose so thickly it covered the moon and stars. Even the insects were silent, driven away by the wraith’s brooding fear. “Why does it not come?” Gimli muttered. “Then at least we could fight!” The foul sensation of the wraith’s presence crawled over him, making him want to writhe away from his own skin.

“It means to wear us down before attacking. When we are sleepless, weary to exhaustion, and despair is near, its power will be all the stronger.” Even Legolas had begun to look worn as he stared fruitlessly into the darkness, the whites visible around his eyes.

Bilbo fidgeted, clutching something against his chest with both trembling fists.

“Do not give in to the wraith’s call,” Aragorn set his hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “It wants you to do as you are thinking.”

Bilbo swallowed hard and set his jaw. “Right.” He did not loosen his grip, and Aragorn stayed close by him, as if to comfort-- or defend.

They found little sleep that night, sing though the elf might, and they departed wearily the next morning, though they had found little rest to ease their minds and bodies. The sun rose, but mist lingered about them, and they could see nothing other than grey wreaths of vapor curling about twisted stumps and lonely, hissing grasses appearing slowly out of the mist at their feet while they walked. The wraith could be anywhere-- everywhere. 

When night came, the company all but fell to the ground where they stood. Even the horses shivered and pressed close together, whickering with nostrils flared, rolling their eyes, too frightened to flee. They would not eat until Legolas calmed them.

“We will not make Rivendell at this rate,” Gimli murmured to Legolas. “If each night is to become so much worse--!”

“They will indeed grow worse,” Legolas said softly. 

Despite the horror of the encroaching dark, sleep claimed Gimi-- and with it, a thousand bleak imaginings. The wraith, clever enough to know a warrior born to Durin’s line would not fear death, did not bother with such petty threats. It twined itself into his mind, extracting his deepest fears with a surgeon’s craft: no longer the fear of rape, or even servitude, but still concerning the elf.

Gimli envisioned Legolas, all raised chin and flashing eyes, grimacing with disdain when Gimli spoke his heart. After, the elf drew away with disgust when Gimli touched his hand or rode behind him, his shameful secret revealed. The elf gave Haldir his glorious shining hair to braid, laughing with the march warden of Lothlórien over the foolish, pitiable dwarf who presumed to think him beautiful and venture words of love. The two of them together told the tale of Gimli’s folly to Galadriel, who laughed also, and summoned other elves to hear the tale so all might laugh and mock him.

Though he knew the lady would not invite others to mock him, there was enough potential for truth in the visions to set great misery brooding in Gimli's mind nonetheless, and they left him with a deepened fear of his foolish, tender feelings.

It was bad waking the next morning to find the marshes about him, but it was worse to see Legolas avoid his eyes. He could only wonder what ugly visions the wraith had sent to the elf.

However bad it might be, Gimli knew the next day and night would grow darker still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Huorns_ : Trees that are half-awake and who hate forest intruders that go on two legs.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions try to elude wraiths as they make their way slowly toward Rivendell.

That morning the horses would not stir until Legolas had gone about, laying hands upon them and singing. Even then they would bear no rider-- except for Bellas, so Legolas mounted with Bilbo before him. Gimli and Aragorn slogged along, leading the other horses as best they could. Near noon they passed out of the marshes and onto the cold, stony plains before the Weather Hills, and when night drew near they camped on the plain within sight of the road.

The halfling had a haunted look, and Legolas spoke quietly to him as they rode, but he answered in monosyllables, unwilling to share his dreams. He kept his right hand stuffed in his pocket and hung onto the horse's mane with his left.

They camped on the plain under a cloudy sky and Gimli’s dreams turned against him once more. In them the wraith’s cunning deepened. He stood alone, in anguish, and beheld Legolas: tall and fair, so beautiful it made Gimli feel hollow with pain to look on him. Legolas would never accept a dwarf’s love, never. It was madness to think it. Madness to look on him with desire. Madness and pain, to be suffered in full measure throughout long empty years as Gimli remained alone and loveless, his body withering as the elf remained young and strong and indifferent, as Gimli’s heart turned to stone in him save only the part that knew hurt and solitude and despair. Fool, to love an elf. Fool, lowly and rejected. Fool, wounded and bitter, while all turned from him and left him to grow old in sorrow. 

Yet….the halfling held a priceless treasure, and Gimli might learn more about it if he wished-- and if he would only take it, it would give him the power to have anything he liked. He might have Legolas, his for the taking. He might command the elf to dance for him, kneel before him, lie with him, love him, worship him. He might disdain the elf’s devotion himself, and yet have it and all the gold of Erebor combined, the elf kneeling before the throne as his footstool, fawning and kissing at Gimli’s feet when they spurned him.

He woke, gasping and wild-eyed, to stare at Legolas, who looked on him with alarm. Gimli hardly knew if he were awake or dreaming, surging to his feet with both hands upon his axe. The fire burned brightly, but its light was fell and cold, staining all it touched with the sickly yellow hue of urine. Then the halfling’s eyes opened, falling upon Gimli looming over him with axe in hand, and Bilbo launched himself to his feet and fled, scrabbling away from the fire in terror.

“The wraith will take you!’ Legolas darted after, disappearing into the swirling mists-- and swept Bilbo up, returning the scratching, shrieking bundle to the fireside before he could flee more than a few ells. It took both the elf and Aragorn to calm Bilbo, who spat and kicked, lashing out with nails, heels, fists, and teeth until Gimli had set his axe aside and all removed their hands from him. Then he crouched, darting wild-eyed glances all about, suffering none to touch him or his treasure, which he held clutched within his knotted fist. 

“Did you mean to threaten him?” Aragorn demanded of Gimli, his own eyes wild with untold imaginings.

Gimli had not even been aware of Bilbo lying so close, not until the halfling fled. “Not in my waking mind.” He put his head in his hands. He could still all but taste the wraith’s promise. The elf, his, writhing and wanton, begging eagerly for his touch...! “I would not harm the halfling. I would not take whatever he holds.” He bared his teeth in defiance of the wraith’s poisonous vision. 

It had mingled both truth and lies, cleverly drawn from Gimli’s secret heart and twisted to its will. It knew the things Gimli would have no being know, least of all himself. It knew what he had already understood before it tried to use knowledge against him: his love was wasted, worthless, unwanted. Those things were true; the only lie was that there might be a way to claim the elf’s heart.

No. Better he never know the kiss of his One than to fall to darkness for a mockery, not given freely. 

His One. Legolas Thranduilion.

Grief drove the breath from Gimli’s lungs, and he wanted nothing more than to curl around himself in misery, protecting this fragile thing the servant of Sauron had torn out of the depths of him, ripped stillborn, raw and bleeding, from its cradle in the womb of his heart, and laid out in pitiless clarity so he could no longer deny its truth or its depth. The shame of it all but crushed him to his knees. Instead he rose, shaking both gauntleted fists at a cold and empty sky. He roared his misery, his rage and defiance, ignoring the panicked shrilling of the horses as Aragorn struggled to hold them, pushing the pain and fear and hate out of him until he could no longer stand and dropped upon his knees.

“I am of Durin’s line.” He husked the words, hardly able to whisper through his raw throat. “You cannot buy me! I will endure!” Blackness seemed to swirl about them all in a vortex, locking them in a terrible diminishing sphere, crushing him to the ground.

Then Legolas was there before him, and the elf’s eyes met his, haunted and dark with anguish. Hesitant, his fingers trembling, Legolas held out his hand to Gimli. He shone faintly against the shadow, silvery light glowing softly about him.

Slowly Gimli took his hand, grasping the warm fingers, twining them between his own, and squeezed tightly. The elf matched his clasp. Legolas drew Gimli upright. Their gazes locked and did not waver. “Fear not, _mellon nîn_ ,” he said, his voice steady. “Did we not agree? The wraith lies.”

“Yes.” His voice crackled and creaked. The elf was his friend. That would have to be enough. “My friend. _Bâha. Buhel._ ” His heart surged in him, fierce, as Legolas’s glow waxed bright. This much, at least, was theirs to share. 

Gimli groped in the darkness with his left hand, finding Bilbo’s small shoulder, and saw Legolas clasp Aragorn’s forearm. They drew themselves upright, a small circle of strength amidst the darkness, taking comfort in one another.

The wraith screamed its rage and hate, and the enshrouding darkness shredded itself and drained away. 

All of us were tempted with some cruel and terrible promise,” Legolas said with certainty. “But all of us have remained steadfast.”

“Yes. It will return to avenge its failure,” Aragorn said, his voice thick with dread. “When it does, it will be done with games. It will mean to kill us.”

Bilbo nodded, his face haggard, and drew himself up to his full height, one hand on the hilt of his little sword. “We should ride.”

“How many days to Rivendell?” Gimli ignored the ache in his throat and spoke quietly to the elf, trying not to let himself be overheard.

“Twelve or more.” Legolas answered just as softly. “Come.” He made a stirrup with his hands and lifted Gimli onto Bellas, who danced and skittered in fear-- but at least the horse would move. Legolas mounted and Gimli set his hands upon his friend's waist to ride-- that much, at least, was freely given. That much he might have, though he closed his eyes in grief at his yearning for that which could not be.

Aragorn scooped the halfling up and they rode forth as if all the orcs of Mordor pursued. They pressed on past noon without pausing for food, and found themselves passing by the great ruined tower of Amon Sûl as the sun sank in the west.

“Look!” Bilbo gasped, and they glanced to the north, where the watchtower loomed against the darkening sky, pillars thrust up from its top like jagged, broken teeth. The rays of the fading sun lay horizontal across the land and caught motion atop the hill, gilding black rags that floated in the wind and gleaming off jagged metal mail and raised swords.

“The nine are on us,” Aragorn spoke, his voice nearly a moan. “Ride on. We will not stop until we find a place we may defend.”

They settled on a copse of half-withered pines perched on the edge of a stony outcrop, set above a small stream through a shadowed vale. “We will only have to guard in two directions,” Aragorn said. “They might contrive to climb up behind us, but we can knock them back before they set upon us.”

He went about, wrenching dried branches from the shattered trees and binding bits of cloth about them, preparing torches while Gimli kindled fire. “These will burn fiercely, though fast,” he said. “The wraiths shun fire. Bilbo, I would have you stay between us. We will circle about you and keep them at bay.”

“Gandalf should have come with you,” Bilbo whispered, swallowing hard, but his back was straight and he did not cringe. "I know enough lore to understand the word you used." He fixed Aragorn with a haunted stare. " _nazgûl_ : ringwraith. They want," He swallowed hard. "They want me. They want this." His palm opened just enough to show a flash of gold, a small innocent-seeming circle just large enough to fit a halfling's finger.

"Aye," Aragorn sighed. "I should not have used the word."

"Better to know." Bilbo squared his small shoulders, setting his jaw. "They won't have it." His voice was small, but it held an edge that could have cut steel.

Gimli stared at the flash of gold until the halfling closed his fist again. A ring of power? It must be. He had not the lore to guess what sort, but it was far too plain for a dwarven ring.

Aragorn set his hand on Bilbo's shoulder to comfort him. “The wizard could not be in two places at once. He has gone south to confront Saruman-- he did not expect the wraiths to come forth so swiftly.” Aragorn brought their horses as close to the fire as the animals would tolerate and picketed them firmly to a stout branch. 

Gimli sat by the fire and whetted his axe, his eyes on the halfling and the elf. Bilbo sat hunched, eating a bit of bread as if he could not taste it. Legolas stood nearby, gazing out into the darkness with his bow in his hand, ready to string and shoot. 

Gimli rose and went to the elf, standing by him to gaze out across the grass. He could not see as keenly or as far as Legolas by day, but his vision was far better in darkness. Legolas set his hand on Gimli’s shoulder, and Gimli regretted the thick mail and surcoat that kept him from feeling it. He laid his arm across his chest to set his own gloved hand atop the elf’s, wishing he dared do more before they died here together-- and yet, if it chanced they lived, he would not have their friendship spoiled by revealing his pointless longing. 

He gazed outward, letting his vision settle and grow used to the dim.

“The plains crawl,” he murmured. “The wraiths are creeping on the ground like worms, coming for us.”

“How many?”

Gimli squinted. “I can see seven, I think, though perhaps some are so near together I cannot make them out, or they may be hidden by the roughness of the ground.” 

“How far?” Legolas strung his bow, his eyes flicking back and forth across the ground.

“They are still far away yet, out of bowshot. They are climbing down from the hilltop and spreading themselves in a wide arc that will enclose us.” Gimli heard his voice tremble. “We should be glad they have no bows. The fire shows us up now, though it may protect us later.”

Gimli stepped back and set himself next to the halfling, who held his small sword in one white-knuckled hand. 

“Give me a coin,” Bilbo demanded without prelude, and Gimli blinked at him.

“What?” Automatically he balked. “Why?”

“I know you have some hidden. I traveled with your father!” Bilbo put out his hand. “Open your purse. Come on.” He beckoned with fingertips. “A gold one.”

Slowly Gimli drew out his purse and located a gold coin. “What are you going to do with it?”

Bilbo didn’t say, plucking it from his fingertips. “Something useful.” He stared past Gimli into the night. 

Legolas’s bow sang, and the elf hissed. “My arrows do no good.” He stepped back into the firelight and drew his knives instead. “They are near.”

The horses snorted, kicking, and Bilbo’s pony squealed, bursting its tether and fleeing. The others danced, tugging at their ropes. Before Legolas could go to them, they too broke their bonds and ran.

“Stand firm!” Aragorn ordered, drawing close, his sword gleaming orange in the firelight. He held a torch in his left hand and thrust it into the fire to kindle.

Bilbo made a low sound in the back of his throat as the first hooded form appeared at the edge of the firelight, a long wicked blade gleaming in its hand. Behind it a shriek arose, curdling the night and freezing the blood, echoed by many others. Gimli growled low in his throat, lifting his axe. 

“Let us see if they can be struck!” He stepped over the fire and lashed out, driving his axe at the wraith’s knees. It shivered in his hand as it met the dark blade and more wraiths came forward, hissing.

Then Legolas was beside him, swinging, and Aragorn as well. "Elendil!" he cried as the harsh rasp of parry and strike rang out. Even Bilbo darted in to try his luck, but each time Gimli thought his blade might strike home, the wraith shivered apart and reformed elsewhere, leaving his axe unbloodied. 

“This is no good!” he roared. “If we cannot hurt them, they need only wait for a lucky stroke to take one of us!”

Aragorn struck out then with his torch, kindling the shrouding black rags, and the wraith squealed, stumbling away toward the verge of the drop behind. Aragorn pursued, kicking it over, but others pressed forward, converging on Bilbo with blades outthrust. 

“You want it? Go after it!” Bilbo thrust his fist aloft and Gimli glimpsed the flash of flying gold following the first wraith in a low arc over the cliffside.

The three who faced the halfling darted aside to pursue the coin, and Bilbo threw himself past a fourth one’s leg, vanishing as he ducked out of the light. 

“No!” Aragorn shouted, but he was already gone. The ones who had vanished over the cliff were already upon them again.

The wraiths whirled to seek the halfling, and Gimli shivered one to bits with a heavy stroke, thwarting it, while Legolas struggled desperately against two, then faltered, barely holding a blade away from himself atop crossed knives. Aragorn swung his torch again and took the last one, for the elf could not parry its strike, but his torch was caught in the wraith and jerked from his hand. Legolas quickly flung the dark blade away, dodging another strike, and stepped back, nearly setting his foot in the fire, but he scooped up a torch and then another, kindling them.

“Gimli!” He threw one into Gimli’s hand and Gimli pressed forward, snarling. He heard Bilbo shriek, and he lashed out with the flame, catching it in the garments of every foe he could reach. Legolas followed hot on his heels, darting between the blazing scarecrow shapes to find the halfling. 

The wraiths retreated shrieking as Legolas lifted Bilbo's small, limp form.

“Is he wounded?” Aragorn snatched for his bag of medicines as the elf carried the halfling back to the fire and laid him down. His coat and vest were cut, and a bright silver scar marred the rings of the mithril shirt over his left breast where it had turned a furious slash-- but he was unharmed, though he lay deep in a swoon.

“Athelas,” Aragorn muttered, and rummaged in his pack while Gimli turned to guard. The wraiths had vanished, leaving only flaming heaps of cloth to blow in the wind upon the heath. “I will call him back.”

Bilbo moaned, his face white. His left hand he clenched tight against his breast, fist knotted so hard Aragorn could not pry it open. His eyes blinked unseeing at the stars.

“It was a brave diversion,” Gimli murmured. “Against any other creature, it would have worked.” He glanced back to ensure the wraiths had not returned. Legolas knelt by Bilbo. Stroking his forehead gently, he began to sing.

How many days to Rivendell with no horses? Gimli blew a long slow breath out, stirring his mustache. Fifteen? Twenty? 

“Why did they retreat?” He asked as Aragorn put water in the kettle to boil. “Why did they not press their advantage?”

“They feel no rush; they have us where they want us,” Aragorn murmured, too soft for Bilbo to hear. “Horseless and far from help. They will try again.”

Aragorn crushed leaves into the steaming water and carried the bowl to set by Bilbo's head, so he might breathe the steam. “We did not fare well, yet it might be worse. Had his mail not turned the strike….” Aragorn closed his eyes in despair. “We cannot count on such luck again. Any who is wounded by one of the _nazgûl_ and dies of it will fall within their power,” he whispered. “Should they succeed in harming the halfling, he’ll soon become a wraith. Like them.”

“ _Nazgûl?_ ” Gimli sighed. “Ringwraiths, Bilbo said. Aragorn…. what sort of accursed ring does the halfling hold?”

The ranger shook his head; he did not answer. “Repeat none of your fears to him; he knows more than he should already. As soon as I wake him, we must go. Time is even less our friend now than before.”

Bilbo lay quiet with Legolas’s hand on his forehead, but he blinked his eyes open as the fragrance of the herb freshened the camp. “It seems I owe Thorin Oakenshield my life,” he whispered. His hand fidgeted at the throat of his mithril coat, and he smiled an oddly hard, humorless smile. “I daresay he’d regret his gift even more now.”

“Legolas, can you find our horses?” Aragorn asked. “Take Gimli to help track them; his eyes are keen in the dark.”

They took torches and found their horses huddled with the ponies near the road, sheltered in the lee of the cliff by which they had camped. The stream slowed there to make a wide ford, and Legolas judged it safe to cross. They called Aragorn, who hurried down with Bilbo. 

“This is a relief,” Gimli grumbled. “I did not look forward to walking to Rivendell.”

“I will teach you to love horses yet,” Legolas teased, but the wind was raw and the memories of the wraiths too close, so Gimli did not argue.

As they crossed the ford the water came up no further than the ponies’ knees, but it was bitter cold, and on the far side Aragorn was forced to stop and take a stone from his mount’s shoe before they could continue. Gimli shivered in the brisk spring wind, cold on his soaked breeches. The elf seemed troubled as he dismounted from Bellas. “Gimli, you ride and I will run along beside. We do not want to weary our mount, and we have a hard road ahead.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mellon nîn_ : My friend  
>  _Bâha_ : Friend  
>  _Buhel_ : Friend of all friends


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can the companions reach the Last Bridge?

The wraiths did not return that night, and they slept well for the first time in many days, though Bilbo’s soft whimpering woke Gimli at the first light of dawn: the halfling was asleep, wrapped in a nightmare. Aragorn roused him gently and they lay close together by the fire, with Legolas on watch, the elf standing on a round grey stone and gazing about the countryside.

They ate in haste and rode forward, oppressed by the brooding fear of the wraiths, which drew in tighter and tighter as the miles and passed, riding through the night, pressing on until all but Legolas stumbled with weariness. “They are still with us,” Legolas said softly to Gimli. “Though maybe they are not visible to your eyes. I can see them pacing us: some behind, some on every side, and some go on before. They have tall crowns and shining swords, and all living creatures flee their path.”

“They mean to hold the bridge before us and pin us against the river from behind,” Aragorn muttered. “We will have nowhere to run.”

It seemed he read the wraiths' plan rightly, for they did not attack that night or the next. After the first long ride, each day Aragorn stopped them before nightfall and they made their defenses, piling heaps of brush in a ring about their campsite and kindling it so they might rest within a ring of flame. It was not a good camp; smoke and ash caught at their throats, and sleep was difficult. Legolas bound the horses’ eyes and stood among them, soothing their fear of the fire, while Aragorn and Gimli alternated their watches-- as much watch as could be made through the glare of the fire, which diminished as dawn drew near and their wood ran out, leaving the ruddy glow of dimming coals.

As dawn showed gray in the west, Gimli scuffed a wide path through the remaining coals with his foot and they led the horses out. 

“We draw near the last bridge. We will ride hard today and try to outdistance those around us. But I fear it will do no good. At the end we will have to stand and fight, and they will all come.” Aragorn lifted his chin, his eyes grim. 

_And they may not be killed,_ Gimli understood. He drew himself up with a huff. “Let them come. We will sell our lives as dearly as we may!”

“Not dearly enough.” Aragorn looked down on Bilbo, who sat before him on his horse. “We will reach the last bridge before nightfall, I think. Bilbo, when we engage them, slip through. Run on before us, and escape if you can to Rivendell.”

Bilbo gave him a stubborn look, but Aragorn leaned down and murmured in his ear until his chin sank and he nodded. 

Legolas too seemed troubled, trotting close to Gimli’s knee. After a time he set his hand behind Gimli’s boot and looked up. “Gimli.” 

“Aye.” Gimli clung to the reins, trying to keep himself astride the horse. 

“This is not a fitting time, I know,” Legolas spoke softly, for Gimli’s ears alone. “But I would ask you before they corner us, before we die: what did the wraith offer you?” 

Gimli blinked down at him, startled.

"Speak, for I greatly wish to know." Legolas looked reckless and fey, driven by some desperate resolve.

Whatever the elf’s temptation might have been, it could be nothing as shameful and hopeless-- as humiliating to reveal!-- as his own secret. Perhaps a way to return to the good graces of his father? If that were so, the wraith would have had him abandon Gimli altogether. Gimli clenched his jaw, feeling the elf’s hand warm on his calf, kindling desire in his breast-- and a matching tide of despair. 

“Would you tell me what it offered you? No, you would not.” Gimli tugged at the reins, making his horse dance away from the elf’s hand at the expense of nearly losing his seat. He struggled until he was steady again, the elf catching their horse’s bridle and gentling it back into its path for him. “What was promised is of no account, for the means the wraith offered of getting it would render it without value.”

“I will say what it offered me.” Legolas whispered, so softly Gimli almost did not hear. “If you will.”

“I will not say!” Gimli half-choked, desperate to end the discussion, his outburst drawing a worried glance from Aragorn. The elf could not know the torment he was causing. 

Legolas gazed up at Gimli, his troubled eyes clear as crystal. They seemed to pierce straight through Gimli, nearly as keen as the gaze of Galadriel. 

“Very well.” He turned his gaze aside. “Yet I am not content. Should we survive to reach Rivendell, we will will speak of this again.” Legolas drew away, but Gimli could not bear to see him go.

“Elf,” he grumbled, and reached out his hand.

Legolas set his in it, and Gimli clasped it firmly. “Now I know we will not die,” he said, gruff. “Because you would not be deprived of your chance to goad me into telling.”

Legolas smiled faintly, the barest ghost of merriment, but it set a light dancing in his eyes. “Indeed,” he answered. “You will not escape the persistence of an elf so easily.”

A rasping, eerie howl interrupted far to the front, making Legolas spin away, drawing his knives. Another answered from the side, and one much closer from the back. 

“We near the river,” Aragorn warned. “The trap is set to spring!”

Legolas ran ahead as Aragorn turned them away from a bend in the road, cutting off leagues of distance by mounting the hillside. The horses labored up a sliding mass of shale, and Legolas came to a halt at the top. A horn, rich and mellow, sounded to greet him.

“Elves!” He turned, shouting with joy. “Elves are coming!”

They gained the top of the escarpment, looking down a long shallow slope into valley of the River Hoarwell. A troop of elves advanced, the lead elf mounted on a shining white horse, his golden hair flying in the wind. He charged forward, clashing with the leading wraith, and shattered him. Then his company poured forth and trampled the things under iron-shod hooves. Seconds later, the clashing of steel, shouts, and a second cry of the horn came to their ears.

Legolas looked to Gimli, a sudden triumphant smile curving his lips, and Gimli flushed in spite of himself, wondering how he could ever manage to dissemble well enough to tell a fraction of his truth without his heart being revealed. Cursed be that dratted elf!

“Ride forth to meet them!” Aragorn drew his sword and swung it about his head, and they thundered down the slope, a poor and ragged onslaught compared to the gleaming troop of elves.

The wraiths, outnumbered and overwhelmed, shrieked their rage and fled. The leading elf pulled off his shining helm and urged his horse forward to meet the travelers.

“Glorfindel,” Aragorn clasped his hand with gratitude. “You are well met indeed!”

“The Lady of Lórien sensed your danger and sent us forth to meet you.” He gave Gimli and Legolas a grave nod. “You have the halfling then? That is well. We have brought fresh mounts for you all. Let us go swiftly.”

They were troubled no more by wraiths as they crossed the plains that rose toward the mountains. To Gimli’s surprise, Legolas did not draw close to Glorfindel as he had done with Haldir; he seemed in awe of the tall and solemn elf. 

“Why are you so shy of him?” Gimli asked when he found a time they would not be overheard.

“He is a great hero,” Legolas explained, just as quiet. “He slew a balrog of Morgoth in Gondolin, and died in the doing, and was sent back among us once more from the west.”

“A balrog,” Gimli said slowly. “What sort of thing is that?”

Legolas lowered his eyes. “A fiery demon of the ancient world, a great and terrible creature of shadow and flame, favored servant of Morgoth-- of whom Sauron is only a lieutenant.”

Gimli looked at the elf-lord with new respect after that-- but though he was tall and fair, with hair like a gleaming river of gold, Gimli thought he did not outshine the grace and simple beauty of Legolas.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to Rivendell leads to many meetings-- both pleasant and unpleasant.

Now that the wraiths were gone, held off by the force of elves, Elrond’s land drew steadily nearer, the days passing without incident. On the morning of their arrival, without being asked Gimli dressed anew in his elven finery, making a face as he packed up his armor and his weapons and strapped them to his Shire-pony. They rode on a short distance and hesitated at the lip of the valley, looking down to find horses and people milling about the lanes and courtyards of Rivendell. 

“We will go back and seek after the wraiths,” Glorfindel told them. “You should have no trouble in your descent.” He heeled his white horse and galloped away with his people, their bright hair flying in the wind.

Aragorn turned to Legolas as he gazed down into the valley. “What do you see?” 

“There are tall men clad in black and silver; their livery boasts a white tree.” He exchanged a meaning glance with Aragorn. “And dwarves as well. I can see their ponies and--” he stopped. “There are at least a dozen of them, three of whom I know. One is Thorin Oakenshield. The other is Kíli. And the third--” his gaze flew to Gimli, who closed his eyes in despair. “It is Glóin,” Legolas spoke quietly. “And there are elves, many elves. Some are from my father’s realm. I do not yet see him among them.” He hesitated. “Gimli, perhaps you should leave your pony now and ride behind me.”

“We could still turn back,” Gimli grunted. “Surely the wraiths would be less unpleasant than this gathering.” He scrambled down, then lifted his arms and let Legolas haul him up, clambering gracelessly astride the tall horse and clinging to the elf’s cloak as he settled himself. He bared his teeth in frustration: returning to his perch behind Legolas should not feel so much like coming home. Yet Legolas wore his new riding braid as he had done every day since Haldir left them, even when he did not expect Gimli to ride behind him. 

“We must do what lies before us.” Aragorn heeled his horse, and Legolas followed, with Gimli turning his attention forward-- until he realized the halfling’s pony had not moved, and he looked back to Bilbo, questioning.

“Thorin Oakenshield? Gimli is right. I vote we go back and ask the wraiths to tea,” Bilbo said, his voice shaken. 

This from a halfling who had faced Smaug, one who had fought the nine blade to blade and lived! Gimli could not blame him; he had no desire to meet the king himself. “Come along, laddie.” He kept his voice gentle. “None of us will enjoy this.” 

Bilbo fell in line, but he threw his hood over his head and would not speak. 

Gimli looked back as they crossed over an arched stone bridge into the main part of the settlement, surprised to find Bilbo’s saddle empty. “Aragorn!” He called. “The halfling has gone.”

Aragorn frowned back at the pony, suspicious. “Bilbo? Are you there?”

“Of course I am.” The snappish little voice could not be mistaken. “By all means, keep staring at me and shouting my name as loudly as you can, so everyone we meet will know.”

Gimli began to wish for magical golden ring of his own as they followed the winding road upward toward Elrond’s dwelling. Strange elves stopped in their tracks to stare at him, and he could hear them whispering at the Prince of Mirkwood’s odd companion. 

“They are from Mithlond and Lothlórien,” Legolas told him softly. “And some are from the Greenwood, but those elves speak not.”

They rode on, and Gimli tensed, glimpsing dwarf-ponies in a square directly ahead. Legolas’s hand covered his where it locked in the elf’s belt and squeezed lightly. “Courage, my friend.”

Gimli growled. It was all very easy for the elf to say, when that very friendship was one of the things Gimli’s kin would least approve!

A loud grumble of discontent arose as Legolas rode into the square and the dwarves noticed him-- and Gimli seated close behind him. It was too late to withdraw his hands and place them properly upon his thighs. At least the elf had loosed his clasp on Gimli’s hand before they were spotted, re-taking the reins.

Gimli’s father stood among the others, standing as if thunderstruck. Their eyes met for a long moment before Glóin looked rapidly away, the knuckles of his large fists gone white. 

Someone spoke a hasty word to Thorin, who turned slowly, regal, to survey them as they passed. His eyes did not linger long on Gimli, dismissing him with contempt. They moved on and noted the laden ponies, then fixed on the last one and its empty saddle.

“I see you, Shire-rat.” The king’s low voice rolled from his deep chest, thick and dangerous with wrath. “You can no longer hide from me so easily.” He extended his arm, one thick, beringed finger stabbing straight toward the empty saddle. “You are wearing a blue coat and a burgundy vest over the very mithril coat I gave to you in a moment of foolish trust.” His voice fell to a sneer. “I see the gleam of gold upon your finger, coward.” 

The halfling's ring. Gimli sighed, distressed that Thorin had already learned Bilbo's secret. Gimli himself could not help but ponder it, when he had nothing else to occupy his mind. It was no wonder the wizard was so concerned. It could not be one of the nine. A dwarf-ring, then? One of the seven? He did not have the lore to know if it might be something else.

Everyone turned to gape at the empty saddle. Bilbo appeared in it between one blink and the next, his face haggard with stress, his fist clenched tight about his ring.

Dwarven hands went to axes and bows, and Aragorn spoke, his voice carrying though he did not shout. “Come, Bilbo, let us go on. None will draw weapons in the lands of Lord Elrond, for this is neutral ground and we are met for parley. Unless the dwarves of Erebor have grown over-fond of elvish prison cells?” Hands came off axes swiftly, teeth bared in snarls. “I thought not.”

They rode on through the square, and as they left, Gimli heard a mutter of Khuzdul directed at him: “ _A'lâju Mahal!_ ”, followed by his father’s bitter snarl and a clang of metal.

“That went less than well,” Bilbo muttered, his face white.

“It might have been worse.” Gimli took his hands from the elf’s belt and set them on his thighs so Legolas would not feel them shaking. They could not hope to avoid the dwarves during their stay, and he knew things might grow much worse, especially if he came on one alone.

When they arrived at their lodging Elrond was waiting, and he whisked Bilbo away with a few comforting words. Aragorn too departed swiftly, leaving Legolas and Gimli alone.

“Let us go and pay our respects to the lady Galadriel,” Legolas suggested softly. “I must find out if my father has come.”

“Carry your weapons, elf.” Gimli sighed. “I would not trust our lives to the self-restraint of Thorin and his companions.”

They found the lady walking through the city, wearing a shining white dress with tiny crystals caught in the mesh, her hair down and flowing. Gimli bowed deeply before her. 

“Welcome back, Legolas of the Greenwood. The jewels you wear become you. A special welcome for you as well, son of Durin.” She smiled on Gimli and laid her hand in his for him to kiss her slender fingers. 

A gasp interrupted them, and Gimli glanced aside, then gently released her hand and drew himself upright. Kíli stood stunned in the street, staring at him and at the lady, a large stone jar of wine cradled in his arms. 

“Lady Galadriel, this is the dwarf Kíli of Erebor,” Legolas said, politely giving Kíli full honors. “Descended from Durin, sister-son to the King under the Mountain, and beloved of Tauriel of the Woodland Realm, who perished saving him and his brother Fíli from the white uruk Azog during the Battle of Five Armies.”

“I am at your service, Kíli.” The lady gazed on him with grave courtesy. “My heart weeps for your grief.” 

Kíli did not speak at once, staring at Galadriel for a long moment with his mouth open, stunned. Then he shut it with a snap. “At yours and your family’s,” he responded harshly, as if the courtesy was jerked from him against his will. He turned on his heel and fled, somehow without dropping the wine.

“I am on my way to join Elrond for an urgent errand,” the lady said calmly, returning her attention to Legolas and Gimli as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course, my lady.” Legolas offered his arm. “What news of the Greenwood?”

“Your father has come with fourteen of his house.” Galadriel remained serene, and Legolas’s face did not change other than to freeze in its expression of pleasant solicitude. Gimli admired his strength of will. 

She glided through the streets on Legolas’s arm until they reached Elrond’s grand house, then made her farewells and went in.

As soon as she had gone, Gimli groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Now when Thorin and his advisers call me an elf-kissing shame to Mahal, they will know their words at least half-true.” 

Legolas looked at him with surprise. “If any will pardon your regard for the lady, it should be Kíli.”

“Kíli is Thorin’s sister-son. He will pardon me nothing.” His childhood friendship with his cousin was no more; like much else, Kíli was now lost to Gimli. He felt ill, as if he had eaten something foul. “Legolas, if you have no purpose in me remaining at your side, I would go back to our lodging. This day has been long enough. I wish for no more chance encounters with my kin.”

“Nor I with my father,” Legolas said. “Let us make haste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A'lâju Mahal_ : Shame of Mahal


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disapproval from kinsmen drives Legolas and Gimli to turn to one another for solace.
> 
> Artwork by the marvelous, talented [Sakurita94](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing) (http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing). I love this amazing picture SO MUCH! Read on to see it. :-)  
> 

Legolas and Gimi returned to their lodging by the quickest way, dodging between buildings and crossing a narrow parkland of trees. Gimli slowed there, feeling the bustle of voices recede behind them. He was glad to be away from the bustle of the visitors in the quiet city. Seeing their building not far across the way, he mounted a footbridge, preparing to cross a small stream whose rippling waters lay overshadowed by the thick boughs of a tall elm. Legolas was silent, frowning, and did not go on when Gimli had stopped. Instead he moved beside the bridge to face him. For once, their eyes were level.

“Are you ashamed of your courtesy to Galadriel?” Legolas asked. Gimli could see unrest on the elf’s handsome face. “Because one of your kinsmen witnessed it?”

“Don’t be foolish.” Gimli scowled. “Only Kíli’s ignorance and grief excuse his lack of reverence for the Lady of Lothlórien. My regard for her is unchanged.” 

“Are you then more ashamed of our friendship than of yours with her?” Legolas's voice was soft. "And you have not yet told me of the wraith's offer, as you promised."

“Elf, what proof of friendship do you require?” Gimli snapped. “I have named you _buhel_ in defiance of all custom.”

Legolas drew himself upright. “Yes. Only days past, our trust in one another was so strong we drove aside the attack of the wraith Khamûl, second among the nine! But you will not speak to me of your secret, and now you say you are shamed by your kinsman witnessing you with me and the lady. You do not lay your shame to Galadriel’s charge, so what else am I to think? Do you shrink from our friendship now in the light of day? Do you shy from me? Would you name me enemy before your kin?”

Gimli blinked at him, startled by the quicksilver change; Legolas’s face was tight with pain, and his eyes snapped with anger. He was transformed, the very shade of Thranduil, his silver eyes flashing in the pale light of the rising moon, his head held stiffly on his proud neck. Gimli did not understand why he was so distressed.

“In case you have forgotten, that is exactly what I must do. I am still bound as your servant, and that is what my kinsmen must see!” Gimli felt his own tension swell to anger in him. “Not that it is hard to play the part, with you imitating your father so very well!” 

Legolas flinched as though he had been slapped, drawing himself up even tighter.

Unbidden, Gimli remembered his bitter envy of Haldir, and felt some of his anger drop away from him. “Legolas.” The wraith had tormented Gimli with fear that his friend would mock him and turn away if he knew the truth of Gimli’s heart. How had it taunted Legolas? With what dark fears was he now burdened? He might know, if only he would tell his own secret. But he could not bring himself to speak it.

Gimli tried again. “You avoid your father yourself. Do not begrudge me my misgiving at finding myself so suddenly changed in the eyes of friends and kin. I revere the lady, it is true. But it is you who have become... you who are…” he took a deep breath, afraid to speak so much-- so little!-- even now. “My brother in arms, my true friend of friends: unlooked for, and therefore twice welcome.” Gimli faltered, his voice catching in his throat. Unable to speak further, he reached to touch the jeweled truesilver cuff in Legolas’s ear, letting one fingertip brush the pendant at the lobe and set it swinging.

Legolas blinked, his whole face changing, his head tilting to one side as he regarded Gimli. Coldness melted away from him, replaced with something like shy wonder. "Your brother," he repeated. 

Gimli went still, unable to move, transfixed by the melting sweetness in Legolas’s eyes. The wood seemed to hold its breath, waiting, as Legolas laid his hand on the railing of the bridge, his fingers covering Gimli’s. “You are close as kin to me as well, _mellon nîn_ ,” he said.

Gimli felt his heart race, but he could not stir. He drew a slow breath, and his tongue flickered out to wet his dry lips. Legolas’s gaze fell to regard them. The elf leaned forward, lifting his chin, drawing breath as if to speak--

A clatter arose from the nearby road, raised voices intruding between them. Dwarves. Guilty, Gimli jerked his head aside to look.

He felt rather than heard a stirring of air at his side. When he looked back the elf was gone, silent and swift as thinking. He might never have stood there. Yet as the voices of the dwarves approached and sharpened when they saw Gimli, he knew Legolas was near; he would not leave Gimli alone to face his kin unaided.

Kíli appeared at the foot of the bridge-path, and Ori, and Glóin.

“There you are, traitor.” Kíli spoke, his voice thick with wrath. “You are a fool to wander alone.”

Gimli did not answer; none of his kin were supposed to speak to him directly, but it seemed Kíli’s wrath was too great to respect tradition. All his cousin’s light-hearted, happy manner seemed to have gone out of him as if it had never been. His face was harder now, set in lines of bitter and joyless resentment, his ready smile gone. Gimli wondered with pity how long it had been since he laughed.

“How come you to pay such tender court to the witch of the wood?” Kíli stepped before him upon the bridge, blocking his path. “You who did not understand when my _amrâlimê_ died at the hand of Azog!” He spat at Gimli’s feet, bitter. “The leaf-eaters would cast their bewitchment on us all.” He dragged breath into him as though he had run a race. “I think you mistook the witch for your master, as faithless a princess as ever picked a blossom! His hand you surely kiss in thanks for the crusts he tosses you to eat.” He stopped, his words choked in his throat.

“You may speak as you will of this lost one, and my master may answer you as he will, but you would do well to speak with respect of the lady of Lothlórien in my presence.” Gimli felt his temper fray. “For she spoke in kindness to you and gave you no insult.” To defend Legolas he might not yet speak, but one day he would, when he was free.

“She holds your _magân_ in her palm, then. It is true!” Kíli bared his teeth. 

“After I am freed I shall seek you and you will take back these words, or I will make you answer for your insult to the lady,” Gimli said, his teeth gritted so hard they nearly cracked. “For you speak in ignorance of that is good and fair, and only little wit can excuse you.” 

“You forget you are a dwarf.”

“You dishonor the memory of your _amrâlimê_ when you speak ill of her people.”

Kíli bellowed with rage, his hand flashing to his belt, and swung at Gimli, meaning to crush his head with a blow of his thick-hafted mattock. Gimli stepped back in haste, his heart in his throat, more than half expecting to see the neat fletchings of an arrow sprout in his cousin’s chest, but the haft crashed against the stout handle of an axe instead. His father, corded muscle straining in his arms, stood by.

“That is enough.” Glóin shifted, pushing back, forcing Kíli’s weapon away.

“The king will hear of this!”

“Let him.” Glóin spoke, voice cold. “Go toadying to him, and I will say he should thank me for your freedom, for if your stroke had fallen, you would swiftly find yourself in an elf’s prison, just as the man warned us all. If you had done murder in this land, you would not have escaped swiftly, if at all!” He stood and watched as Kíli backed away, snarling, then turned to hurry up the road.

“I go,” he said, and stamped away without speaking to Gimli further or looking back. After a last wide-eyed glance at Gimli, Ori scuttled along behind them.

Gimli sighed, his shoulders drooping. That would more than serve; enough reunions for one day. A rustle in the leaves above told of Legolas's whereabouts, but Gimli did not look up, ashamed of his cousin.

Night had fallen over the valley, and torches lit the way to halls where food would be served and songs sung. Gimli ignored the beckon, slipping into alcoves to dodge groups who walked upon the street, moving slowly and avoiding others until he reached his goal.

He went into their hall and found his room lying between the elf’s and Aragorn’s, his belongings laid waiting next to a warm bed. Gimli went in, shedding his helm and setting aside his axe. Legolas had somehow arrived before him. The door between their rooms stood open and lamplight flickered in the elf’s chamber. Gimli could smell savory food and wine waiting.

Gimli hesitated, then shed his cloak and boots. He peeled off his clothing, stretching his muscles. It seemed strange to feel the freedom of air on his limbs. The chance to remove all his clothes came so rarely these days he nearly forgot what it was like between times. 

Reluctant to put on a travel-stained tunic, Gimli picked up the thick cotton nightshirt Elrond’s folk had provided and thrust his arms and head into it. It was far too long, made for an elf, and the chest was too tight. He put it on anyway, rolled the sleeves up, and held the hem so he would not stumble, then stole toward the open door, feeling strangely shy.

The elf too had removed his surcoat and sat on his couch wearing only a light tunic and breeches, both legs drawn up, his arms wrapped around them. He rested his forehead on his knees. The screens he might have left open to let the starlight in had been drawn down to the floor.

Gimli blinked with alarm. Was Legolas weeping? He all but forgot his own worries in his concern. 

“Legolas.” Gimli went to him, helplessly setting his hand on one slim shoulder. “I am sorry. I should not have compared you to your father.”

“That is forgotten.” Legolas whispered, never lifting his head. “I was with you, Gimli. I waited in the tree.”

“I know.” Gimli said simply. “You would not leave me in danger, but I am glad you did not shoot Kíli.”

“Had your father not stopped his stroke, I would have done.” Legolas lifted his face, and his eyes blazed. “Gimli, Kíli is changed, maddened by grief and the dragon-sickness.”

“Do not blame Kíli, elf.” Gimli wondered if Legolas could begin to understand. “His rage comes from his pain. Seeing me with the lady was hard for him. Best to have the confrontation over.” 

“He envies you what he has lost.”

I do not have what the orc took from him,” Gimli answered heavily. “Not with Galadriel or any other.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “At least you can hope this matter is settled,” he ventured at length.

“It is not over. Thorin will likely want to have his turn at me as well, if he can get it, and my father too,” Gimli sighed. “And perhaps others. You did well to hide. They could not speak openly with you at my side, and delay would only worsen their wrath. I will go armed, at the suggestion of my master and with the leave of Lord Elrond, so I may defend myself next time there is need.” He gave Legolas a wry look. “You had best make your wishes known where many ears can hear them.”

“I will do so.” Legolas nodded. “Yet I mourn the folly of our kin.” Legolas looked on Gimli with grief, his eyes dimmed. “We are both homeless, my friend. Should the world change and the dark lord fall, where then will we go?” He rose and crossed the room, pacing restless between the walls like a caged beast. Seeing his discarded coat and weapons lying at hand, he pulled off his tunic and dropped it, then took down his hair, combing the braided strands loose with his long fingers.

Gimli tried to breathe, watching the glide and flex of long, taut muscles in the elf’s arms, savoring the revelation of his milk-white skin, the unmarred perfection of his tapered back. His breath left him at the beauty of the elf’s narrow waist, at every muscle delicate but distinctly sculpted in his narrow, hairless chest. The elf’s leggings rode low on his hips. What sculptor could ever render such perfection in white marble as was captured here in flesh? Swallowing hard, Gimli forced his gaze to return to Legolas’s face.

“I am sure the Lady would have you in Lórien.” Gimli took a deep breath and forced himself to speak his thought, little pleasure though it gave him. “Haldir would be glad of your company among the mallorn trees.”

Legolas frowned a little at his words, but sat on the couch once more. “I would go with you to live in that land, if it is your wish, but I think it would grieve you to see the lady with her husband there.”

Gimli cleared his throat, an embarrassed huff. “Not so much as Aragorn would have it,” he confessed. He nudged the elf over. “Let me sit by you. For though we are both homeless, we are not alone.” His heart ached inside his chest as he sat, leaning his back against the arm of the chair. 

“We have one another,” Legolas agreed, his voice very soft, and moved as Gimli asked. “That must be home enough for now.” 

“Aye.” Greatly daring, Gimli put his arm about his friend, pulling him close. For the first time he thought of the look upon the elf’s face before the dwarves came and sent him fleeing. What would he have said, or done, had the wood remained silent? Gimli’s heart quivered in his chest. For the first time he dared to wonder: how much had the wraith misled him, how much had his own heart erred in thinking an elf could never desire a dwarf? His heart quivered with the boldness of the thought; he scarcely dared breathe.

Legolas exhaled, a great gusty sigh that left him drooping, his head tilting to lean against Gimli’s. Gimli held his breath and sat perfectly still as all the tension flowed out of the elf. Legolas’s eyes closed, the fans of his lashes perfect curves on his pale cheeks. He moved, arranging them both so he could settle against Gimli, embracing him and laying his head upon Gimli’s chest, nestling them snugly together. Gimli’s heart swelled with a great, fierce tenderness.

“We do not need to be strong here, or guarded, with the two of us together?” The elf asked, so low Gimli barely heard him. There was no trace of haughtiness, no hint of Thranduil’s pride, left in Legolas now.

“No. We may be who we are in this place, with no others to judge.” Gimli let his fingers stroke the elf’s back, making small, soothing circles on living silk. Some remote part of his mind yammered at him, mingling terror and desperate caution with disbelieving joy. 

“I am glad to hear it.” Legolas whispered. “I am weary from our long days and nights on the road. Rest a while with me before we eat?” His long golden hair fell forward to cover his face, the fair silky strands settling against Gimli’s beard. Then a puff of air stirred the screens, lifting his hair and weaving the filaments together with Gimli’s hair: blond tangled with auburn, fine twining with coarse. “We have spent so long in peril I would sleep better with you near.”

“Aye,” Gimli answered, though he was very hungry. He reached to the table and pinched out the candle, feeling the elf’s slender hand move, and hesitate, then slowly venture beneath the fringe of his beard, creeping upward until it lay upon skin at the opening of his shirt. 

Art by [Sakurita94](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing) (http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing)

Legolas lay still. 

_I would protect you from all hurts_ , Gimli thought fiercely to himself, knowing he could not keep such a vow, but wishing it was within his power to prevent Legolas from feeling sorrow ever again. 

He could hardly breathe, and dared not move. How could it be such a beautiful, otherworldly creature would wish to lie twined with Gimli thus and trust him to guard his sleep? It shivered him to his soul. Gimli might almost believe he could lean down to taste the elf’s lips, and his affection would not be unwelcome. But he did not… quite… dare. Perhaps resting together this way was common among elves. 

An hour passed, the moon rising to shine silver beams past the edge of the shades. Gimli thought the elf slept deeply, though his eyes were open. He had taken no rest while the nazgûl pursued their party, so Gimli meant to let him sleep as long as he would. He occupied himself with his senses, absorbing Legolas’s every heartbeat through his palm and marking the progress of one thin shaft of moonlight across the elf’s pale skin. In other circumstances he might have closed his eyes, but he did not want to miss even an instant of his friend nestled against him. Legolas lay quiet, abandoned to sleep with perfect trust, his slow breath rising and falling under Gimli’s palm, his hand warm on Gimli’s chest. 

Such a rare and precious moment might never come to Gimli again.

At last Gimli’s treacherous stomach rumbled, and Legolas stirred, laughing. He rose in one smooth motion and went to re-light the candle. “I am much recovered. Hunger is more urgent now than weariness, I think.” He poured wine for each of them and divided the loaf. 

Gimli roused himself, regretting the lost embrace, but the food was good and the wine was better, and there were plenty of both.

Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Buhel:_ Friend of friends  
>  _Magân:_ Balls


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Legolas argue over Gimli.

The sound of a door opening and closing woke Gimli, who slept lightly away from home, his senses still alert for any sound of attack.

“Legolas.” A silken voice spoke, dragging him upward to full awareness. “I thought you would revel away the night in feasting and song. I have wasted my time seeking you among the company, when I should have waited here.” Thranduil. Gimli rose in haste, nearly tripping over the hem of his nightshirt.

“ _Ada_.” Legolas’s voice was cold as the frosts of the High Pass. 

“A well-chosen word, for it is plain you have abandoned your king.”

“Perhaps my choice was poor, for always you have treated me as your subject rather than your son.”

Gimli hastened to the partition that separated the two rooms, stirring it aside a hand’s breadth so Legolas might see he was near and know himself supported. Thranduil stood tall in the center of the room, a flowing silver cloak thrown over his shoulders, his pale hair streaming among its folds. Though Gimli tried to make no sound, Thranduil switched smoothly to Sindarin to thwart his listening. 

*****

“ _You wear a barbaric adornment now_.” Thranduil stepped forward to look at it, and Legolas pulled his head away, refusing to allow his father to touch his jewel. “ _I have seen its like on some elves here, and heard many tongues tell of the foolish elf who let a dwarf fondle his ear for all to see_.”

“ _It is none of your affair_.” Legolas lifted his chin, refusing to be shamed. “ _Did you cross the mountains only to quibble with my choice of jewels, or have you some more worthy purpose in seeking me out?_ ”

“ _The half-elf invited me to attend a great council_.” Thranduil’s lips pursed. “ _Too, I thought I might well reclaim an erring subject here and return him to my halls in safety. Ever he has longed to place himself in the heart of troubles too great for him. I thought rightly, for I have found him here with property he stole from my house, both tagging after the grey fool_.” 

“ _Gimli’s safekeeping was given to me, and I judged I could best ensure it if he remained at my side. He is not your property._ ” Legolas struggled to contain his wrath, ignoring the insults. “ _Free him. A dwarf is not a beast to be chained_.”

Thranduil widened his eyes with exaggerated surprise. “ _You use its name as if it were your friend_.” He glanced coolly at Legolas’s jewel. “ _Or your lover, as is now whispered among the Noldorim. I half thought I would find it warming your bed. I am grateful you have not sunk so low_.”

Legolas considered the charge, well familiar with his father’s ways of putting him on the defensive. Counter-attack was the best defense. “ _It does not surprise me you assume I would look wherever I might for love. You know my lack well, for rarely have I received such a thing from my father_.”

Thranduil’s lips pinched white, and he looked down on Legolas. “ _You know nothing of love_.”

“ _Indeed. How might I learn of something I have not been shown?_ ” Legolas smiled without humor. “ _And yet, perhaps I know more than you-- of friendship, at least. Gimli is my friend both in name and in act, more so than you can understand. The nazgûl themselves have learned to fear our friendship_.” He pressed forward, backing his father away, a startled half-step. “ _Would Celebrimbor have allowed Narvi to serve as his slave? No more will I require Gimli. He does not kneel at my feet, but walks at my side, his own dwarf in all but name, too honorable to go when I would dismiss him on your behalf. You will free him._ ”

“ _Return to my halls and I will consider it_.”

“ _Free him now, without condition. Would you stand before the White Council in the land of Elrond and refuse their will? If you do not do as I request, they will require it of you themselves, and they will expose the shame of your actions before all_.” Legolas pressed his advantage, perceiving a flicker of dismay in his father’s eyes.

“ _The Noldor and the **peredhil** do not command me_.”

“ _Then free him because it is right_.” Legolas stepped forward again, and again Thranduil gave ground. Legolas felt triumph sing through him, sensing such a weakness in his father as he had never guessed. “ _Before they ask. Because I will have it, Ada._ ”

“ _Return to my halls and I will_.”

“ _I am no more yours to command than he_.” Legolas fell once more into Westron. “Free Gimli, or I will never again set foot in your halls.” He could see the dwarf at the screen, listening, his eyes going wide. Let him know what the fight was about.

“ _I will command the dwarf to return with me, and you will never see it again!_ ” Thranduil surged forward, chest to chest with his son, but Legolas did not falter.

“ _When the Council rebukes you, I will tell them how you have spoken your desire for the dwarf’s death. They will take his oath from you and pass it to me, and I will dissolve it_.”

“ _I did not come here to discuss a dwarf_.” Thranduil retreated gracefully, as if to dodge the argument at its crux.

“ _Then why was he the first concern to fall from your lips?_ ” Legolas felt his heart race, sensing he had won. Even if he must wait for the Council, Gimli would be free. “ _I will say no more until you free him_.”

Thranduil stood back, drawing himself tall, his face a passionless, brittle mask. Legolas could see no hint of expression in it, though he guessed Thranduil’s agitation was great.

“ _It feigns friendship for expediency’s sake…. it will leave your bed if it is freed, and it will not return_.” Thranduil tried once more, and Legolas thought it a desperate gamble. Surely his father did not truly believe he and Gimli had become lovers. If he had, he would have entered their rooms with sword unsheathed.

Legolas drew himself tall and proud, again making neither confirmation nor denial. Perhaps Gimli would indeed choose to go, but if he wished it, then he might. “ _Staying or going will be his choice to make_.”

“ _Have it as you will, then, and I wish you joy of your disillusionment_.” Thranduil turned his head to regard Gimli. “Dwarf. I count your oath fulfilled. Go back to your people.” Thranduil’s voice was smooth as glass, bitter cold.

“In writing.” Legolas pressed. “That he may prove his freedom before his kin.”

Thranduil accepted quill and ink with ill-grace, scrawling in great flourishes upon a sheet of parchment. Legolas lit a candle and Gimli stepped forward one hesitating foot at a time, his eyes fixed on the table as Thranduil dripped wax and applied his seal. He thrust the paper at Gimli, who took it with shaking hands.

Gimli glanced to Legolas, seeming as if he would speak, then retreated to his room without words.

“ _I never desired the service of a dwarf, as well you know. I sought only to shame its king. That, at least, is accomplished. Will you speak reasonably with me now, my son?_ ” Thranduil tried long-suffering patience, pretending too late the subject was unimportant to him and hinting at weariness with the barest tilt of his head.

“ _That will depend_.” Legolas could not help but smile, flushed with exultation in his victory.

“ _On?_ ”

“ _On whether you can be reasonable._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ada_ : Father  
>  _Peredhil_ : Half-elf


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli takes advantage of his freedom to acknowledge a great change in himself, as dictated by the customs of his people.

Gimli did not pause to dress, scrambling from his room and down the hall to seek Aragorn, who sat up on his couch in confusion, blinking against the dawn light.

“Confirm what this says for me?” Gimli nearly stumbled upon the hem of his ill-sized shirt, hurrying forth with Thranduil’s document in hand.

The man blinked at the parchment. “'I, Thranduil son of Oropher, king of the Silvan elves and lord of Eryn Galen, do hereby manumit one Gimli son of Glóin, dwarf of Durin’s line, subject of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain of Erebor. I hold his oath fulfilled. I declare him free and blameless of any obligations associated with his agreement to serve as chattel to me for 77 years of his life in exchange for one year of food and medicine for his people. The aforesaid commodities will be delivered to Erebor as originally agreed.'” By the time he finished, he was stammering with wonder. “Gimli, how did this come to pass?”

“Legolas arranged it.” Gimli reclaimed the paper with trembling hands. “He is closeted with his father now. I should return!”

“I will go with you.” Aragorn rose in haste. “Though I think Thranduil will not welcome our presence.”

But when they went to Legolas’s room, both he and his father had already gone. Gimli dressed in haste-- his own clothing, worn and travel-stained though it was, not his elvish clothing.

Somehow the sunlight felt different on his head now that he was free again: the light warmer and clearer, the air cleaner in his lungs. It was not that Legolas had been a hard taskmaster-- he had not exerted his will over Gimli at all since they left Dale. But still, he felt the difference. He was free now to do anything he wished.

“Our council will not yet meet; we wait upon Gandalf’s return.” Aragorn interrupted his thoughts. “We may do as we will today. You perhaps more than any!”

“I should go at once to find my father,” Gimli decided. “He will be glad to hear this news.”

He made his way through the winding streets-- a veritable maze for those who were new to the valley, twining avenues that led past intricate masonry, carefully sculpted trees, twining ivy, and fountains of crystalline water. Many eyes marked him as he passed. His own eyes were not idle; he noticed several elves wearing silver cuffs upon their ears. Many resembled Legolas’s, except all were made to be removed. Some showed great skill of craft, but Gimli privately thought them lesser than his own work, for they were not a part of the elves they adorned. 

He finally found his way to the courtyard of the dwarves, hesitating on the verge. All were yet asleep but Ori, it seemed, who sat a sleepy watch at the door of their pavilion. Perhaps he might send the scribe in to find his father, and avoid the wrath of the king.

He showed himself, stepping out of the shadowed archway into the light, and Ori’s eyes went wide.

“I have news of great import. Please ask Glóin to come out.” He drew himself upright. “My father.” He held out the paper, Thranduil’s large and elegant signature plain to see at the bottom. 

“You have been freed?” Ori’s eyes went wide, and a broad smile broke across his face. 

“I have. Will you go in?”

Ori ran.

Glóin came rushing out minutes later with his shirt half-tucked in his breeches and his surcoat thrown over his arm. “Gimli?” He said, hesitant. “Ori said--”

“Fresh from Thranduil’s hand. Legolas persuaded him to free me.” Gimli smiled and showed his father the document. “I had a witness read it, to be sure.”

Glóin threw his arms about Gimli and hugged him until his ribs creaked. “What manner of magic did you work upon that accursed prince?”

“Do not curse him, if you love me.” Gimli grimaced at his father’s disbelieving stare. “He is a creature of honor. Or perhaps I am simply so stubborn he was forced to change.” He hoped so, at any rate-- if Legolas still treated the dwarves as he had spoken to Dori in Dale, Glóin would believe Gimli had lost his wits. 

“I can believe little that is good of Thranduil or his get.” Glóin scowled. “But you are free, and that I cannot argue. I can only be glad! This is not the time to waste words on worthless elves. Gimli, I have much news to share.” He lowered his voice. “Our party comes here not truly to answer the summons of the half-elf, but because we have a greater purpose.” Glóin hesitated. “Perhaps I should not tell without the king's leave, but I hope I may persuade Thorin to rescind your banishment. We will need every warrior before we are through!” He let his voice fall to a whisper. “We mean to retake Khazad-dûm as we took Erebor. The king believes the death of the Great Goblin, Azog, and Bolg leaves the orcs of the mountains all but leaderless. We will swoop in, clear the mines, and reclaim them for our own!” 

Gimli stared at his father, as surprised in his own way as Glóin had been when Gimli defended Legolas. “Such a course is folly. The clans of the dwarves lost half our warriors at Azanulbizar, and we never so much as entered the east gate! What of Durin’s Bane?”

“So thought I, at first, but the king has held counsel with various powers in the east, and he believes we may prevail. He has contrived a plan to--” Glóin stiffened as a shout arose in the building behind. “That is Thorin; Ori could never keep a secret long. Be away with you and I will work at softening him. I am glad of your freedom, Gimli.” Glóin embraced him again, then went in. 

Gimli made haste to escape before the king emerged. Aside from his father he had no wish to encounter the others-- and he was none too sure he would accept Thorin’s offer of a return to Erebor even if the king could be persuaded. As for Khazad-dûm… the less said the better; his heart warned it was a fool’s errand. 

Gimli cast about for a place to conceal himself. He still knew little of Rivendell and might not guess at a refuge, save one. He set forth for it with determination, a plan forming in his mind. There was a thing he needed to do now that he was his own dwarf once more, and that was precisely the place he wanted for it.

Forge-fires glowed and hammers rang in the smithy, welcoming Gimli and soothing him as he approached. He felt the fabric at the tail of his surcoat, thinking fondly upon Dineth the weaver. The cloth hung stiff and heavy, and his fingers found the flat round shapes still stitched into the lining. Doubtless the kind wood elf had divined his secret during her laundering and care of his clothing, but she had graciously left him in possession of his hidden gold. 

It was well, for what he wished could not be paid for by coin from the elf’s purse. The coin of its paying must be Gimli’s own, earned with the sweat and pride of honest labor. He pulled loose a stitch and freed a coin, then another, before going in.

Gimli paused by the door, letting his eyes adjust to the red of forge-light. Arvegil was busy, laboring hard over a billet of folded steel. Draw, cut, fold, and weld: Gimli watched with awe for many minutes, unwilling to interrupt. The elf was a master craftsman, drawing forth the shape of a long, slender sword. How old might he be, how many such blades had he forged? 

Arvegil set the work aside to heat and turned to find Gimli watching. He smiled. “You are quiet, for a dwarf.”

“That will be a fine blade you make. I think I have never seen a finer.”

Arvegil bowed. “You are welcome here, for you are a craftsman in your own right. Have you come to watch and learn, or would you make?”

“I wish to make, in gold, and I will pay for the use of fire and tools.” Gimli drew himself up with pride. “I have brought gold, enough to compensate you and to melt for the item I would pour.”

Arvegil had the wit to accept Gimli’s payment instead of attempting polite refusal, and the smith smiled on him. “Use the furnace and tools as you see fit. Another member of your company is here, as well. He is sitting in the stable-yard.”

Gimli glanced out and saw Bilbo sitting atop a sealed quenching barrel, a quill in his hand, biting his lip as he scribbled and scratched earnestly in a small, hand-bound book.

Gimli took up a square of casting wax, a barrel mold of a size and shape that suited him, and a melting bowl with a candle burner, then went out to join the halfling. “Greetings, master hobbit. Do you too find the city so busy that even a smithy seems quiet by compare?”

Bilbo looked up, a little flustered. “I thought the one place a dwarf wouldn’t come is an Elvish smithy.”

“I am not just any dwarf,” Gimli observed. “Just as you are no ordinary hobbit, I think.” He set the lit candle under the melting bowl. “If you sought to avoid me, I am sorry.”

“No, it isn’t you.” Bilbo relented, his shoulders sinking. “I specifically wanted to avoid a repeat of yesterday’s brush with Thorin.”

“He would never come to this place,” Gimli agreed. Though Thorin might deign to carry a fine Elvish blade, it was best not to mention such things—and Thorin would never set foot in an Elvish smithy of his own choosing.

Bilbo eyed him, a smudge of ink marring his nose. Gimli went about his business calmly, preparing the mold to receive the wax. He wanted a perfectly smooth cylinder, or as close as he could get. Then he would carve the surface of the bead and make a new mold, in which he would cast his gold.

“What are you making?”

“A set of gold beads to use as hair clasps. What are you writing?”

“A bit of doggerel for Aragorn.” Bilbo scowled at the page, a mass of scratchings-out and scribblings. “Can you think of a rhyme for ‘glitter?’”

Gimli considered for a time, but his command of Westron did not serve to answer the hobbit’s question. “No. Perhaps I should be quiet and let you think.” Gimli waited as the wax melted, then made his first pour. He sat back to wait for the wax to harden again, hoping it would come cleanly out of the mold.

It did after a time, so he took his tools back, cleaning them and returning them to their places as he waited for the final hardening. When he returned he brought delicate carving implements and set to work making the design of his choosing.

Bilbo’s eyes were alert; he all but abandoned his writing to watch Gimli at his carving. “Are these to go on a braid?”

“Yes,” Gimli answered simply.

“Some of the dwarves in the company wore golden clasps in their hair. Your father was one.”

Gimli nodded, resisting the invitation to comment. He etched the sign for _amrâlimê_ with great care, keeping uniform depth, smooth edges, and well-formed curves. Bilbo watched without even pretending to write anymore.

“I don’t see how you do such fine work with such large hands,” he murmured as Gimli turned the work. 

“It is a skill acquired with great patience,” Gimli breathed. He was nearly finished. He had no sigil to identify Legolas; he would rather not use Thranduil’s stag and tree. He paused, eyeing the empty space.

“May I borrow your quill and a scrap of paper?”

Bilbo let him, and Gimli sketched until he was satisfied with his design: a simple beech leaf. Those were the trees that grew about the Elvenking’s palace; their leaves would wave outside Legolas’s windows in the summertime. There were trees here that he might look on, with new leaves of pale, vivid golden green that he used as his models.

Bilbo lifted a brow as he watched the leaf emerge, and Gimli flushed. When he was satisfied with his design, he transferred his drawing to the wax, careful strokes inscribing the oval leaf with its delicate spikes and veins. 

Bilbo politely waited unti he finished. “Legolas would like that design.” His voice was perhaps too mild.

“Mayhap.” Gimli tried not to sound gruff. There was no way to be sure how much the hobbit knew, or guessed, of his purpose in making these things. 

Bilbo sat back and fished for his pipe and his pouch of Shire weed. He took his time filling the bowl, then went inside to light a straw at the forge. When he emerged, he was puffing slowly.

Gimli finished mixing the plaster and carefully packed it around his wax form. It would need to dry overnight before it could be cut. That would be the longest part of the process; not even the setting of the gold would occupy as much time.

He could see a thousand questions in the halfling’s eyes, but wisely enough, Bilbo left them unspoken.

“Finish your poem, halfling, while I go into the smithy to see where I may be of use. Later perhaps we can walk down together. A friend would be a welcome shield for us both, I think.”

Gimli entered the dim of the forge, setting his drying mold on a shelf out of the way of others. 

“Would you mind the bellows for me, _elvellon_?” Arvegil called. “I need a helper with a skilled hand.”

Gimli went to help him, keeping the forge well-heated as the elf finished the final folding and drawing of the blade-- the thin metal folded to form more layers than Gimli cared to count. Arvegil beat it quite smooth and quenched it. “The shards of Narsil are here, though they are mainly preserved in the hilt and sheath,” he confessed when he was done, giving Gimli a wink. “I chose to make the blade of my own steel, so I could be sure of its hardness.”

Gimli chuckled. “The tale of a blade reforged is an impressive legend, though.”

“That it is.” Arvegil laughed with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _amrâlimê_ : One true love  
>  _elvellon_ : Elf-friend
> 
>  
> 
> Dear Peter Jackson: NO, YOU CAN'T FIX A BROKEN SWORD BY HEATING THE BITS UP AND HAMMERING THEM BACK TOGETHER, KTHX. Not unless you want it to shatter the first time you try to cut anything tougher than butter. >_<


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli finishes his goldsmithing and tries to find Legolas to thank him for his manumission.

Gimli went down into the valley with Bilbo late in the evening, unsure where he should settle for the night. They went first to the room Gimli had been given, but found Legolas and Aragorn were not there. Bilbo sympathized, but could offer few useful suggestions.

Sighing, Gimli straightened his axe in its loop and the two went in search of Thranduil’s pavilion, Bilbo guiding him through the winding ways of the city. The King of Greenwood had been lodged in a palatial residence, with many elves visible between the pillars of the dwelling: tall and slender, dark and fair, many of Thranduil’s own few retainers marked by their flame-red hair. Of Legolas he could see no sign, so he went to the door, but guards awaited there.

One lifted a brow at him, a cold smile flickering across his features: Andrath. Of course.

Gimli gritted his teeth and kept his speech pleasant. “Greetings. Might I go in? I must speak with the Prince of the Greenwood.”

“That you may not,” Andrath answered without hesitation, ignoring the halfling entirely. “My orders are to keep undesirables from entering.”

Gimli felt his gauntlets creak as his fists clenched. “Would you carry a message to him, then? My errand is urgent.”

“I might, if he has leisure to receive such when business is done. What word would you send?” Andrath’s smile stretched wide, revealing many white teeth. They needed only sharpening, Gimli thought, to make him a viper.

“My gratitude for his kindness in regard to my freedom, and my desire to thank him personally.”

Andrath raised an elegant brow and spoke in a bored tone. “An urgent errand indeed, dwarf.” 

“It is to me, and to him as well, I think.”

“I will tell him if I see fit.” The smile curled wider, and Gimli’s patience snapped.

“ _Imrid amrad ursul!_ ” He snarled, forcing himself not to spit at Andrath’s feet. There was no chance his message would ever be delivered. He would have to find the elf later.

Steaming with wrath, Gimli turned away. 

“I could sneak in and find him,” Bilbo offered, one hand in his pocket, but Gimli declined-- better not to use the Ring except at greatest need.

“No sense in risking that; Legolas has not vanished forever. Perhaps we should part now,” he suggested to Bilbo. “I must find my father.”

They separated and Gimli went back to the dwarves’ courtyard. Only a few of the dwarves were there—including most of Gimli’s particular friends. His father, Ori, Dwalin, and Balin were among them. 

“Come in,” Glóin welcomed him, despite the general discomfort of the company. “We have found sausages in the pantries, and we are roasting them! Thorin is gone to meet with the half-elf and his counselors, so you may join us. All is well.”

Gimli followed his father to the balcony, where the dwarves had built a fire using the graceful furnishings from their apartments. He winced a little, but did not speak his thought. Kíli’s eyes flashed at him, hostile and angry, but when the others did nothing but grunt an embarrassed greeting and shift their feet, he held his peace, tossing a stick onto the fire.

Dwalin glared at Gimli from the corner of his eye at first, and the others seemed mistrustful as well, uncomfortable in their speech with him, but food and ale did much to relax their caution. 

Nevertheless Gimli felt strange and could not settle, especially as more dwarves entered, some of them looking at him darkly and muttering to one another. His own disgrace was of little import; they would settle soon enough, except possibly for Thorin. However, he kept noticing the dwarves as elves might see them: wasteful of ale, messy with food, disrespectful of their host’s belongings. It made him feel guilty and out-of-place, unsure of his own allegiance.

He thought of sitting down, on a chair at a table rather than cross-legged on the floor, with Legolas to share his meal. He thought of using the manners he had taught himself in deference to the lady Galadriel. Gimli stared down at the sausage he held in his hand, torn. Firelight and kin versus wine and the elf… but he might not go to Legolas’s side, for Andrath blocked the way. 

Thorin scowled upon Gimli with distaste when he returned.

“I am told the elves have found you valueless.” His eyes burned with an unpleasant light. “There is no place for traitors among my company.”

Gimli bent his head. “I am sorry my king did not find value in my actions.”

Thorin stared at him for a long moment, but did not reach for any weapon. “It is well this is not Erebor, or I would separate your head from your shoulders for breaking my edict. My judgment stands; you will not return to that realm.” He dismissed Gimli from his mind without ordering him to leave and turned away. “I will talk no more business tonight,” he said. “Is there food?”

Gimli knew the king would not speak of any important matters before him-- but he also knew Legolas would tell him what had happened at any urgent meeting whenever they were reunited, so he kept his peace.

He wished to thank his friend right as soon as he might, if he could ever find the elf. Gimli gave a longing glance out at the expanse of Rivendell, but his father’s hand was on his shoulder, and Glóin smiled on Gimli with rueful fondness as he filled Gimli’s cup with wine, so he stayed with his kin.

*****

Gimli was unable to find Legolas again in the morning, so he eventually gave up once more. He took lunch with his father, then returned to the smithy to saw open his mold. It had taken well, so he prepared clamps and tongs and set two coins in a small gold-melting crucible over the fire. As soon as the gold liquidified, he made his pour and set the mold to cool.

In only a few hours he had finished two bright cylindrical hair-beads of pure gold, his designs well-set, rough edges sanded away, the gleaming metal well-polished. They were ready for use. Gimli weighed them in his palm, frowning with indecision.

“Narvi wore such a thing braided in his beard, and Celebrimbor bore its twin in his hair.” Arvegil appeared noiselessly beside him, smiling with kindness. “This I remember, yet not many elves now living would recognize a dwarf’s heart-promise.”

“Narvi was luckier than I,” Gimli confessed softly, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “For all it may appear otherwise, Legolas is my friend, Arvegil, no more. I might have made only the one bead, but for foolish hope.” He fingered the beads quietly. “I did not fully know my heart until the wraith tried again to use him against me. Would that it had left me in peace or threatened me with death!” 

“Do not despair. Even the wise cannot see all ends.” Arvegil set his hand on Gimli’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “He may yet prove your hopes well-founded. Give him time.”

Gimli nodded thanks, his throat so choked with emotion he found himself unable to speak. He went out into the stable yard and sat down on Bilbo’s perch, then fumbled at the hem of his surcoat. He kept a needle and thread tucked in next to his hidden gold, and he pulled it out, sewing the extra adornment back where the coins that made it had once lain hidden. 

“There it will stay until I am laid to rest,” he guessed. He picked up a lock of his beard, set just below his lower lip, and divided it in three for a lonely narrow plait, the simplest of braidings. Fingers moving slowly, he braided it down and set the golden bead at the end to speak its simple message: ‘My heart is given forever to one I may not claim.’

The braid swung free, an unfamiliar weight against his chin. His kin would notice at once, but few others would, and few who were not dwarves would know its meaning. Not even dwarves would know who he pledged himself to, unless he chose to tell. Only Arvegil guessed, and Gimli thought he would keep his peace.

Arvegil was still stirring inside the building, damping the fires and setting the smithy to rest for the evening, though it seemed the other elves had gone. As the sun sank in the west, he came out and approached Gimli.

“Will you come with me? It is a special day in the valley.” He led Gimli forth to the front of the building, where Imladris lay spread before them. “We are set away from all, yet it gives us advantage today. Look,” he pointed. Gimli could see many elves gathering below, some of them climbing along the footpath to the smithy, others gathering in pavilions set amidst the waters. 

“It is the day of solstice-- and of firefall, when the setting sun catches in the waters along the Bruinen and turns them to flame.” He sat down upon the path, letting his long legs dangle over the edge, and Gimli drew near to stand beside him. The golden rays of the setting sun danced in the rainbow mists of the falls-- but as the sun touched the horizon, pouring into the valley along the channel of the Bruinen, the color grew deeper, and the waters of three falls along the valley kindled one by one, as if living fire ran from the heart of the earth and poured into the river as it cascaded down.

Gimli held his breath in awe, vowing never to forget what he had seen, wishing in vain for Legolas to share the sight with him.

“It is a kind omen,” Arvegil said. “A message of hope and rare beauty. Tomorrow the Lord Elrond means to begin his council even if Mithrandir has not returned.”

Gimli could only nod, fingering his braid and thinking of Legolas, until the sun sank behind the land and the glow was extinguished. Then Arvegil led him down amidst the elves. 

Once again he could not find Legolas, so with mingled sorrow and relief, he went in search of his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Imrid amrad ursul!_ : Die a death of fire!
> 
> If you are reading this in realtime (just after it's been posted), please be aware I am having internet problems. While I was on vacation, Earthlink decided to cut me off after not bothering to inform me when there was a payment problem. They say it's going to be about a week before I get internet access again, so I've been reduced to leeching off the lousy wifi at fast food joints or at work-- and the wifi at the restaurants won't load AO3 for whatever reason, but I prefer not to load it more than I absolutely have to at work. I know I owe people comments all over the place, and I apologize. I will get to them as soon as I can! ♥ ♥


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf returns to Rivendell at last.

Legolas returned to his room late in the day after spending many tiresome hours with his father. He was weary and annoyed; he had no interest in maneuvering to score advantage over Elrond and Galadriel, both of whom Thranduil secretly despised, yet such was his father’s first concern. Thranduil’s preoccupation with politics rivaled his attempts to re-establish control over Legolas and coerce him to return home. Thranduil had fallen into old patterns as if his single lapse of control had never existed, monopolizing Legolas’s time and taking every opportunity to keep him from his friends. Only now had Legolas felt himself able to break away so he might return to his lodging and seek them out.

Unfortunately neither could be found. Legolas guessed Aragorn had gone to spend time with Arwen. The whereabouts of Bilbo and Gimli were not so easily reckoned. Perhaps Gimli had merely gone to give news to his father-- but if so, he had taken all his belongings with him. His room was a bare as if he had never been there, and Legolas felt a pang of pain in his heart as he surveyed the abandoned chamber.

Legolas went out and stood alone on the balcony, looking out across the valley to watch the pouring falls. He was glad for Gimli, but also felt a deep and troublesome disquiet. He had grown used to the dwarf’s steady presence. It would be selfish indeed to wish Thranduil had refused to free Gimli, but perhaps he might be allowed to wish his companion had been less ready to flee his society. Only a day ago they had declared themselves allies against the world, and now it seemed the dwarf was gone back to his kin, not even pausing to offer Legolas his thanks.

Had his father been right about the dwarf after all? That was a bitter thought. Had the wraith shown truth when it said Gimli would surely leave him forever at the first opportunity? It could not be. He was in danger of reacting too hastily. ….Yet if he was not, then what could not be altered must be borne.

Legolas went inside and put on his finest clothing, then went out to join the feasting and the song. Perhaps he might see Gimli out among the company.

But his father was waiting to sweep him away, and they spent their time in the Hall of Fire jockeying for position, not enjoying the songs. He did not chance to see his friend, neither that day nor the next-- not until late in the evening, when his restless steps led him through the city and he chanced to glimpse the dwarves of Erebor gathered upon their balcony. They had kindled fire directly upon the white marble, and the sticks they burned were finely carved, broken from the shattered works of elven craftsmen. They laughed and shouted at one another, throwing food and quaffing Elrond’s strongest wine. Legolas looked at them in dismay, disappointed by their disregard.

Then he found what he sought: Gimli sat by the railing, quiet and removed but still part of the gathering, smoking his pipe. He spoke occasionally with his father, who sat near him. Even Thorin was there; it seemed the king of Erebor had somehow accepted Gimli’s presence among the others.

Legolas stood still in the shade of a tall arch, enduring the bitter ache of loss in his breast. The dwarf had found his place again. Where else might Legolas go now but home with his father? What choice had he but to be buried in the caverns of Thranduil, where he would be scolded like an errant elfling for every imaginary transgression, his only purpose to be sent out on his king’s whim to kill hordes of spiders, a flow as endless as the ocean tide? 

“Legolas?” Aragorn appeared not far away, squinting at him in the shadows. The ranger spoke quietly so the dwarves would not hear him. “Is it you there?”

“Yes.” Legolas moved just enough to be seen, then stilled again. Aragorn stepped near, following his gaze to the balcony. The dwarves were unlikely to see them standing below, so blinded were they by the light of their fire, and so distracted by their merriment.

“You did well to have Gimli freed.” Aragorn set his hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “He will not soon forget his gratitude.”

“Perhaps,” Legolas answered, unable to meet his sympathetic gaze. “Aragorn, what will you do when we have finished here?” He asked of a sudden.

“I have thought long upon it. If the wizard would not have me travel further with him and Elrond gives me no other errand, I will go north and meet my ranger kinsmen, the dúnedain, and stay among them. It is said they do much to keep the folk of Beleriand safe by killing orcs and trolls and wargs, and I could make myself of use by joining their ranks. Elladan and Elrohir journey with them often, and they will accompany me northward.”

“Might you have need of an archer in your party?” Legolas tried not to sound too needful.

Aragorn smiled, sympathetic but glad. “Without doubt. I would gladly have you as my companion.”

A sound distracted Legolas-- the hush and sweep of air flowing over great wings. He gazed up as a silhouette eclipsed the moon. “A great eagle,” he whispered. “It means to stoop upon the Lord Elrond’s pavilion at the top of the city!”

“Gandalf is come at last,” Aragorn guessed. “Let us go up to greet him.”

*****

Gimli found Glóin in the dwarves’ courtyard, where the delegation from Erebor were using the bole of a tree as a target for their throwing-axes. He winced; that would not go down at all well with Lindir, but he did not speak of it. Glóin welcomed him eagerly and together they went up to the balcony, where Ori had lit a fire and preparations for the evening meal were well underway; they had brought their own provisions rather than rely on the food of the elves.

”Look at your shame,” Kíli hissed at Gimli, glaring at the new bead in his beard. “Wearing your betrayal of our kind in your beard!”

Gimli only stared at him; to his mind, it was the greater shame that Kíli wore no such token in memory of his own elf. 

”At least you have the wit to know the elf-witch would not have you,” Kíli persisted, and Gimli still made no response, gazing straight into his eyes until Kíli backed down. He huffed at last and turned away, and Gimli took his hand from his axe with relief. He had no desire to fight his cousin in the land of Elrond.

Gimli ate and talked with those who were willing, glad he had not been required to leave the company. When he had finished his meal, he became aware of his father gazing at him, his forehead pinched in a frown. Glóin tilted his head, inviting Gimli to come aside, so Gimli rose and joined him by the balustrade, where they pulled out their pipes.

“All can see the bead you now wear.” Glóin kept his voice low, but he could not hide his alarm. “How has this come to pass? I did not know you had met other dwarves in your travels. You have met your One? Who is it? Why is the match hopeless?”

Gimli accepted the inevitable. He had expected this inquiry from the first. Yet he did not know what to say; he did not know how to admit the truth to his father, knowing how deeply it would distress him.

Glóin’s eyes narrowed at his hesitation. “Is it as Kíli says? Has the elf-witch of Lothlórien ensnared your wits?” 

Gimli still made no answer, and his father spoke with shock and anguish. “Gimli, my son, say it is not so; do not waste your devotion on one of that heartless race! You must reconsider. Even if you may not return to Erebor, there are yet many dwarrowdams in the Blue Mountains who would be glad of a husband with your lineage and skill at the craft of armoring.”

“My heart is given.” He could not bring himself to say more, though his father deserved the whole truth. 

“But my son!” Glóin shook his shoulder. “Your time among the elves has confused you, surely. Stay with our company until you feel more like yourself again; I think Thorin will allow it as long as we are not in Erebor. Have nothing to do with elves until you find your feet among us, and perhaps your regard for her will fade as if it never was. Repent of this folly now, before more have seen!”

“My heart is given,” Gimli repeated dully, miserable that he upset his father, his eyes on his boots. “I know my One, and I will have no other.”

Glóin closed his eyes, his breath escaping him in a long hiss. “ _Mebelkhagâs!_ ”

Wrathful at the insult, Gimli opened his mouth to give a suitably hot answer, but a shadow eclipsed the moon and stopped him: wings beat the air as a huge bird swooped over the valley and banked in a single slow circle before settling atop the pavilion that crowned Elrond’s garden. Footsteps hastened through the courtyard below. He stood and spied Legolas there, his pale hair catching the moonlight in its distinctive braid, Aragorn making a darker shade beside him as they ran together toward Elrond’s house.

His heart leaped and Gimli rose without thinking, taking up his axe. “I must go,” he told his father, and would not stop for questions, vaulting the parapet and landing in the square to sprint after his friends.

Legolas half-turned upon hearing him and held out his hand to slow Aragorn until Gimli caught them up. He gave Gimli a slow-dawning smile, then they ran on together, arriving just as the great eagle flapped its wings and launched from the pavilion into the air. 

Elrond’s house was ablaze with light, bustling with busy servants. Lindir spied them and turned aside from his path to come out in the courtyard and bob a hasty bow. “His lordship and Lady Galadriel are closeted with Gandalf the Grey, who has just arrived under less than ideal circumstances.” He held a bowl of steaming water in his hands. 

“We may as well wait here until they’re ready for us.” Gimli muttered gruffly. “Or until there is more news than this, at any rate!”

“He is late in coming,” Aragorn agreed. “Something has gone amiss.”

“Very well. I will send word out to you when I may. If you will excuse me.” Lindir vanished in haste through a curtain.

Gimli took out his pipe and his tobacco pouch and went to the edge of the pavilion to pack the bowl and light it. The eagle was still making great sweeps over the valley, circling as it worked to gain altitude enough to venture the passage across the mountains. 

Aragorn came to join him. He got out his new pipe and his pouch of Old Toby, both acquired in Hobbiton and as yet unused thanks to their headlong flight from the wraith. Aragorn lit the pipe and inhaled deeply, but then coughed. 

“Slowly, laddie,” Gimli advised. “Not too much at first.” He sensed Legolas moving to stand near him, and his heart speeded up, yet he made bold to speak, hoping his voice would not quiver. 

“I have tried for many days to find you, Legolas, but Andrath would not let me set foot within your father’s lodging, and he would carry you no message. I owe you great thanks for persuading your father to grant my freedom, elf.” He felt the weight of his new braid keenly as he spoke, and knew his face had flushed deep red with embarrassment. He was glad of the dark. He felt dreadfully vulnerable, as if his genitals were exposed before a dozen staring females: his first time appearing before his _amrâlimê_ with the promise bead openly displayed in his beard. He trembled to his core to be seen so, even though the elf was oblivious to its meaning. “I owe you many years of freedom. It is a debt I can never repay.”

“Seeing you free to do as you will is payment enough,” Legolas said. He stepped close and his fingertips brushed Gimli’s shoulder. Gimli closed his eyes, drawing on his pipe and exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “But I have missed your snoring, though I am loath to confess it.”

Gimli opened his eyes again and raised his head slowly to gaze up at the elf, recognizing the friendship and welcome waiting for him there. His heart swelled with fondness. “I suppose I can bring myself to endure your presence while we wait for news.” His warm tone made a lie of his words. Then he nudged Aragorn. “Talking thus will give me a crick in my neck. Make room for him to sit,” he said gruffly, and the elf joined them on Gimli’s windward side. All three were content to wait nestled snugly together between two white pillars, talking, smoking, and listening to the elf sing with their legs dangling over the valley as the stars wheeled slowly through the sky. 

Near dawn, the lady came out in Lindir’s place and she greeted them kindly. Soft rose-gold had begun to stain the sky, catching in the white mist of the spray rising from the waterfalls. It colored her white dress with a blush and the morning breeze lifted her hair. “Gandalf will be well, though he has suffered much,” she said when they arose to meet her. “He brings grave news. Elrond will hold his council today, and those who are chosen must embark on a desperate errand thereafter. I only hope we may act in time, before our enemies are ready for us.” 

She gazed on them. “Will each of you go and tell your kind? Elrond will meet with them in the plaza of Elfaron when the sun appears above the mountains.” She pointed down to a wide circular courtyard at the base of the city, the white marble floor gleaming in the growing light.

“Aye, my lady,” Gimli answered her, bowing his head, and they departed in haste to do Galadriel’s bidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mebelkhagâs!_ : Elves (impolite term)  
>  _amrâlimê_ : One true love


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship of the Ring is formed, and two members confer with their fathers.

The morning sun crested the mountains as Gimli followed Thorin and his dwarves to the meeting in the plaza of Elfaron. Finding not enough chairs, the king chose only a few advisors to remain with him, dismissing all the rest. Gimli hesitated, wishing very much to attend. Legolas sat beside Thranduil, who viewed the dwarves’ arrival with a cold disdain that sent a spark of anger burning through Gimli. Men arrived too, tall and austere, wearing dark coats of velvet embellished with silver, and circlets of gold upon their heads. Their leader looked no more friendly than Thranduil, gazing upon the company as if all of them sat so far below him he would not deign to speak. 

Since none stepped forth to dismiss him, Gimli lingered to listen, standing behind his kin. He noticed Aragorn among the elves and wondered if he too should find a spot there-- but he could not bring himself to step forward to join them, and in a moment the last seats were taken.

The morning stretched long as Elrond laid out the history of the rings of power, and Gimli shifted from foot to foot as he listened, wishing he had swallowed his pride and joined his friends despite their race in order to have a seat. His eyes went to Gandalf, who sat by Bilbo, the lady Galadriel also at his side. The wizard carried himself with his usual straight, tall posture, but Gimli could see weariness in his eyes, and he leaned heavily on his staff whenever he moved.

Thranduil interrupted Elrond with sweeping majesty as the talk turned to Bilbo and the Ring he bore. “Now I must tell that the creature you sent among us, this Sméagol or Gollum, is prisoner no more. My elves were beset as they guarded him, and he fled them. He was lost among the trees.” 

Gimli frowned. Had the creature ventured near Dol Guldur and been caught by the wraith? That would explain much. By the lowering of Gandalf’s brows, the wizard thought the same. 

But Thranduil dismissed the matter with a flick of his fingers. “The creature knew little that has been said here, I think, and was of no consequence. More important is this: I have lately received an unwelcome visitor, an embassy of Mordor.” He arose, sweeping forward, his silvery robe brushing the stone. “Much was offered me: the purging of spider vermin within my realm, the return of the abandoned city on the hill of sorcery, the fortress which was once Amon Lanc-- all in return for information regarding this creature, leading to capture of the halfling, companion to dwarves, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire-- and retrieval of a trinket he once stole.”

“We have received such an embassy as well.” A tall man rose, with silver hair. “And we sent him away, for we knew nothing, and we do not treat with the servants of Sauron.”

“Rohan has seen this embassy also.” Another man spoke, this one blond, his accent far less smooth and polished than that of the man of Gondor. “But he also asked for horses in return for gold, and we sent him on his way with arrows. The creatures of that land have a cruel way with beasts, and ever they raid our lands, killing our people.” 

Thorin listened without speaking, though many dwarves in his party looked from one to the other, and Gimli saw the king’s fingers move subtly-- a command to silence. He frowned and resolved to ask his father if such a messenger had come to Erebor, and whether the embassy had been received. Surely not. And yet….

“We all share a common foe,” Gandalf said heavily. “More than one of them, if truth be known. The kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan will bear the brunt of the first attacks, both from Mordor and the traitor Saruman, but war is upon us all, come soon or late. Erebor will have to withstand once more the forces of Gundabad. We must anticipate our enemies’ plans and unite swiftly to defeat them before they may gather their power and destroy the west.”

“The One Ring must be destroyed,” Elrond nodded. “The heir of Elendil must come forth and call for the raising of armies to march upon Isengard and Mordor.”

The meeting immediately broke down into squabbling, voices raised in argument. Legolas arose, stepping between his father and Thorin; Gimli himself held Glóin’s shoulders and kept him back from the fray.

Bilbo stepped forward suddenly, lifting his chin, and spoke, his voice nearly drowned by the babble, which died as he spoke. “It is plain enough what you are pointing at. I started this affair, and I had better finish it.” He tucked his hands behind his braces, glaring around at the sudden hush. “I will take the Ring and destroy it.” He glanced around the circle, drawing himself upright with blustering false bravado. “It is mine. I found it, and it is my responsibility-- as is much else that has gone wrong,” he said, looking straight at Thorin, who gave him no response other than to meet his gaze with a level stare. 

Elrond gestured for peace, and slowly the assembly returned to their seats, grumbling. “Very well,” the lord of Imladris agreed. “It is your right to claim this duty, since you are the finder of the Ring. But you will need companions upon your journey."

“I will go.” Aragorn stood forth, and he went to one knee before the hobbit. “If by the force of arms I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.”  
“And my axe,” Gimli pressed forward without hesitation before any other could speak.

“And my bow!” Legolas was only a heartbeat behind, his hand falling warmly on Gimli’s shoulder.

Chaos erupted again. Thranduil swooped forward to argue and Thorin stamped to meet him, his eyes blazing with anger. A man of Gondor stood forth, and the golden-haired prince of Rohan, then the elf-lord Glorfindel, before chaos descended and all sense was lost. Gimli stood amidst the melee and felt his future shifting around him, inexorable. He looked to Legolas, glad to find the elf’s gaze awaiting his. Legolas reached out his hand and Gimli took it, and Aragorn set his own atop both of theirs. Together they stood beside Bilbo and behind him, waiting for Elrond and Gandalf to restore order.

*****

“We will set out within the week,” Gandalf told them later, when the meeting had ended-- though the arguments still had not. Elrond closeted himself with leader after leader, Thranduil current among them. Legolas suspected his father was demanding he be forbidden to go, and hoped Elrond would not be intimidated by Thranduil’s supercilious manner. 

“We will go among the lands and gather armies-- but at some point our fellowship must part, and the halfling and I will take the Ring to cast into the fire. I will summon my friend Gwaihir to carry us,” Gandalf confided. “Thus we should be spared a long and terrible journey through many perils.” He brooded for a moment. “If we make it so far northward I would have you, Gimli, go among the dwarves of the Iron Hills and call them to our cause. Erebor will not support us, I fear.” He shook his head. “Legolas, how many would follow you from the Woodland Realm?”

“There are those who would, but much will depend upon my father. If he refuses his permission, there will not be many who would defy him.”

“Then the north is in great peril of falling to Gundabad-- an arm of Mordor-- thanks to their misguided pride and obstinacy.” Gandalf shook his head, his eyes weary. “But the Galadhrim and Elrond’s folk will join us, at least,” he sighed. “And you are valiant and trusty, and will be worth many. I am glad to have you all, in truth-- but my heart misgives me about others of our company.” He could say no more regarding either Ecthelion of Gondor or Thengel of Rohan.

Legolas eventually became aware of his father standing near, listening to their speech; it seemed his audience with Elrond was ended. He turned aside and went to Thranduil, then followed as his father led away. The elvenking did not speak until they were settled at his lodging, and then only to send all others out. When they were finally alone, Thranduil poured wine, pushing one glass across the table to Legolas, and took his own to stand by the window, staring out over Rivendell and sipping.

Legolas did not speak; silence was a ploy Thranduil often used to drive opponents to betray their nervous thoughts. He would speak when he was ready, or they would remain silent through the night if he left it to Legolas to speak first. However, he thought he knew his father better than that.

After he had finished his wine, Thranduil set his glass aside and fixed Legolas with a stern look.

“I am not pleased with your choice, or with your failure to discuss it first with me.” He stood tall, as cold and angry as Legolas had ever seen him. 

“The choice was mine to make.” Legolas answered simply.

“After I did as you asked, I expected you to be reconciled to me.” Thranduil frowned. “Is this ingratitude fitting?”

“My decision represents no ill-will toward either my father or my king.”

“Then forsake this madness, which will lead you only to death and ruin.” Thranduil stepped forward and laid his hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “I will let you choose your duties and give you greater power within my kingdom, if you wish it.”

Legolas blinked at him, uncertain. He had never heard his father speak so.

“I must do what I believe is right,” he said. 

“You may serve what is right in many places, with many companions.” Though he was still quivering with anger, Thranduil raised his hand and laid it on Legolas’s cheek. Legolas had to make himself be still; he could not recall when his father had last touched him, and he sensed Thranduil’s torment; whatever else they might be, his words now came from the heart. “The wizard uses those he may; he spends their lives like water. His goals matter more to him than friends and kin. Let these mortals go with him, and let them fight, and let them die-- for they will die. An hour, a day… a hundred years from now. Do not choose to die with them.” His silver eyes held Legolas fast, too bright-- tears welled there, Legolas thought, and Thranduil’s lips were not steady. “I would not have you throw your life away.”

“My choice is made, _ada_.” Legolas struggled to keep his voice even. “I do not count my life as cheap, and I will sell it dearly if I must, but I will not stand idle and allow Sauron to rise uncontested.”

Thranduil drew himself up, shuttering his eyes and withdrawing himself as if the moment of vulnerability had never been. “I will not give permission for any of my elves to follow you,” he said, and turned away. “The grey fool has taken enough from me. He must seek the rest of his allies elsewhere.” He half-turned to Legolas and set his hand upon his breast, a wry salute, then vanished in a swirl of cloak. He heard him call for his lieutenant: “We will tarry here no longer among the miserable mortals and the accursed Noldor. Summon our people. I will depart within the hour!”

Legolas left his father’s courtyard in sorrow, but the thought of Gimli speeded his steps and gave him hope. He might be sundered from his father’s will, but he would not be left alone. 

*****

Gimli too was sought by his father during the day after the council ended. “I have not seen you since you left so swiftly,” Glóin met Gimli with folded arms as he walked along a shaded path with Legolas and Aragorn. A few other dwarves lingered nearby, keeping Glóin company, and Gimli’s friends lingered likewise. Scowling at them, Glóin hauled Gimli aside into an alcove, a quiet nook shaded behind a tall pillar. “And now you put yourself forward for this madness! My work is wasted; Thorin will never trust you now. You are headstrong and foolish, Gimli!”

“I pledged myself because I must,” Gimli bent his head. “The Ring must be destroyed, and I will help.”

“Will you cut yourself off from all your people and be left behind as we reclaim our ancestral halls?” Glóin shook his head in despair. “When this folly is done, will you spend your life mining coal in the Ered Luin, or slaving in a forge you do not own to mend pans for the wives of men?”

“I will do what I deem is right,” Gimli said softly. He would not slave for the wives of men; he had no doubt he would be welcomed here in Imladris, if nowhere else, and might work alongside Arvegil in his smithy. This would be even less pleasing to his father, so he did not speak of it. “As you did when you answered your king’s call to Erebor. Yet can you truly say it is right to follow him now?” He gambled, lowering his voice. “What of the embassy from ‘powers in the east’-- from Mordor?”

Glóin drew a sharp breath. “A shrewd guess,” he said softly. “I will not speak of that here.” He drew back, his eyes sad. “Gimli, I wish you all success in your endeavor.”

“I wish I could say the same of yours.” Gimli whispered. “But I feel in my bones that Thorin’s plan is unsound, and it will fail. Will you not abandon it? Knowing your king’s madness-- guessing his alliance with the shadow…. Will neither turn you aside?”

Glóin bared his teeth. “The shadow will never conquer us. We will use it to our own gain, then leave it to gnaw itself in the dust.” He lifted his head. “I will not turn aside, no more than you will step away from your elf-queen.” Glóin shook his head in despair. 

“My father.” Gimli bowed his head for a long moment, trying to find words. “I beg you to let my secret go no farther, but I will hide no longer behind the skirts of the Lady of Lothlórien.” He raised his chin, determined. “Not from you.” He spoke so softly in Khuzdul, hoping no one else might hear. “My heart is given to Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of the Greenwood. He is my heart’s One.”

Glóin dropped his axe, which clattered on the cobbles; he stood staring, not bending to pick it up. “Your jailer!”

“My friend.” Gimli squared his shoulders, proud. 

“May the spiders of his accursed wood hang the elf high and lay their eggs upon him, that their get may suck him dry!” Glóin bellowed in Westron, and silence fell as their private conversation suddenly became common knowledge. All eyes swiveled to stare at them as Gimli scowled and turned away from his father. 

“You have run mad,” Glóin whispered, his voice broken. “Your wits turned soft by time enslaved….”

“My wits are my own to judge, and my friends my own to choose.”

“Gimli.” Legolas stepped forward, hectic patches of color upon his cheeks, and Gimli fell silent in dismay, wishing he had not heard Glóin’s outburst.

Legolas laid a hand upon his shoulder. “His words were meant for me, I know. And I have earned them.”

“Elf, you need not--”

Legolas went to one knee and bowed his head as those around them stared in disbelief. “Honored father of my friend, I regret the cruel words I spoke when I offered insult to you and to your family. I was a fool.” He laid his hand upon his heart and pulled his hair aside. “ _Naethen_. I am sorry.” He stayed where he was, his bare neck offered up as if to submit to the stroke of an axe. Gimli stood stunned. He had not known Legolas was aware of this gesture, but it was highly proper-- and quite dangerous, for it might be answered with any blow Glóin chose.

Glóin stared at him, jaw dropping, mouth hanging open. His hand flexed and settled on the haft of his axe, but though his knuckles went white, he did not draw the weapon. 

“Get up,” he said at last, a bitter growl. His hands flexed still with rage, but he did not reach for his fallen axe. “For my son’s sake I spare your worthless life.” Glóin spun and stalked away, and the other dwarves followed him, leaving Gimli with Legolas.

“Legolas,” Gimli whispered, his hand trembling on the elf’s back-- knowing his heart was in the word, if Legolas had the ears to hear. “I thank you.”

Legolas arose gracefully. He smiled down, bright as sunlight, and Gilmi coughed, suddenly shy. “Let us go and find Gandalf,” Gimli said. “I have news he must hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given a choice between rehashing everything that was exposited in the Council of Elrond and glossing lightly over it, assuming anyone who's read the books or seen the movies already knows that stuff... I chose to gloss rather than to bore. ;-)
> 
>  _Ada_ : Father  
>  _Naethen_ : I am sorry


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo goes to the source, seeking confirmation of disturbing news.
> 
> Artwork by the incredible, talented Willietheplaidjacket (http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/commission). A stunning take on Bilbo and Thorin! :-)
> 
> Mild warning: This chapter begins to pick up the dark Bagginshield element of the tale. Angst and dark UST ahoy!

“Thorin has met with the embassy from Mordor and accepted Sauron’s aid. He means to retake Moria,” Gimli told Gandalf as soon as he might be found. “Since we too go southward, we will see proof of it soon. Our paths will go close together for many leagues.”

“Such a course is worse than folly.” Gandalf sighed with terrible weariness. “We must try to dissuade them, Gimli. I will work to reach Thorin, and you must do what you can with the others.”

“Only my father trusts me,” Gimli said heavily. “Or he did, once. Now I do not know. The others will hardly speak. They have seen me join in friendship with the elf and know he wears gems of my crafting. They believe I have changed.”

“So you have,” Gandalf told him gently. “But for the good, I think. Still, perhaps you may see things or hear things that I cannot, and bring warning if it is needful.”

“Warning of what?” Gimli shook his head, bitter. “We already know their purpose, and you believe they will fail. What else remains to be known?” If Thorin failed, his father would fall in Moria. The knowledge grieved Gimli greatly.

“Many things, perhaps.” Gandalf blew a slow smoke-ring toward the moon. The halfling arrived then to join the company, and the wizard beckoned to him. “Ah, Bilbo. You can help us in this. What do you believe Thorin is planning?”

Bilbo turned his head away. “Do you not think I have betrayed him enough?”

“Not when ‘betrayal’ leads to salvation.” Gandalf laid a compassionate hand on the halfling’s shoulder.

“I believe he means to retake Moria,” Gimli said gently. “Had you heard of this before?”

“It doesn’t surprise me.” Bilbo’s shoulders slumped. “They seem prepared for a trip much more hazardous than the high pass, and the ones I’ve spoken to are tense-- both with excitement and with worry. I heard it said many times on our journey that the death of Azog, Bolg, and the Great Goblin leaves a void in goblin leadership that would have made a great difference at the Battle of Azanulbizar.”

“Yet Durin’s Bane remains-- and will not be as easily defeated as the force that halved the might of the seven kingdoms of dwarves in Dimrill Dale.” Gandalf scowled. “Thorin fails to remember that though they called it a victory, the dwarvish forces never made it inside the east gate. We must learn why he believes he can defeat Durin’s Bane with such a small company.”

“I’ve wondered that,” Bilbo frowned. “And I have noticed.” He swallowed hard. “Gandalf, have you seen Thorin wears--”

“The ring of Thror. I have indeed. Thrain himself told me it was taken in Dol Guldur. By Sauron.” Gandalf stared out into the night, puffing at his pipe for long minutes until he spoke again. “It seems significant to me that all the groups who came reported being approached by an ambassador from Mordor-- except for Thorin Oakenshield. He concealed this truth.”

“He would not meet with such an ambassador!” Bilbo’s voice grew shrill with dismay. 

Gandalf raised a bushy grey brow. “Indeed? If he rejected it out of hand, then why would he not speak of it? For you may rest assured: a messenger came also to Erebor. Sauron will leave no stone unturned, and would not neglect to exploit weakness by pretending alliance, or by striving to threaten an enemy’s strength and diminish it with fear.”

“Thorin is weakened by the dragon sickness,” Gimli whispered.

“Precisely.” Gandalf stabbed the stem of his pipe at Gimli. “We must take care.”

Bilbo looked as if he would be sick, his face white, his arms wrapped around himself, fingers clenched in his waistcoat. “Thorin would not have traded news of me to Mordor,” he whispered. “Not even now.” Suddenly he jerked himself upright, hectic blotches of red on his pale cheeks. “I won’t stand for it!” He turned abruptly and ran.

“Bilbo--” Gandalf rose, too late, reaching after him, then subsided into his seat and rubbed his gnarled hand over his brow. “Confrontation between them is inevitable, I suppose. Perhaps better now than later, when Thorin is beyond any hope of reach.” 

Looking at the wizard’s face, Gimli thought he feared it was already too late.

*****

None spoke to Bilbo Baggins as he wandered through Rivendell in a daze, his feet leading him ever closer to the courtyard where Thorin’s dwarves were housed. The Ring hung heavily on its chain, swaying to and fro about his neck as he moved. He thought the elves of Elrond’s house sensed its presence and held themselves aloof from it, staying far from Bilbo’s path. 

That suited him, for there were none he wished speech with-- save one.

Thorin stood at the edge of a tall balcony, staring out over the valley, his dark hair lifting in the wind. He had a talent for dramatic pose that Bilbo had once found breathtaking-- still he found it so, but now another feeling left him choked and hollow inside. 

_“Fifteen birds in five fir trees._  
_Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!_  
_But, funny little birds, they had no wings!_  
_O what shall we do with the funny little things?_  
_Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;_  
_Fry them, boil them and eat them hot?”_

Bilbo sang softly, watching Thorin stiffen. His head turned to survey Bilbo, no softening of expression in his stern features. 

“When I stood between you and Azog the defiler with a weapon in my hand that my own companions laughed at and called a letter-opener. When the wargs paced forward to take me, when I slew my first orc for love of Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo had to pause, his heart twisting in his chest. “When I stood witness for you in Laketown.” He could hardly bear to continue. “When I made the most difficult decision of my life in exchange for peace and you threatened my death… even then, I did not think it was in you to sell me to Mordor.” 

Thorin did not speak, looking down upon him, but the dwarf’s hand slid along the rail, and he moved in a sudden surge to vault over. He landed heavily upon a white flagstone, his iron-shod boots scarring the stone, making a dull scraping thud that echoed in the thumping of Bilbo’s heart.

It was still there-- the intensity of Thorin, the leashed power, the sense of a great and inexorable force drawing him in. Once it had promised exaltation, wrapped him in a corslet of glimmering mithril, trusted him above kind and kin-- even threatened to have vengeance, to destroy him, but never had its intensity faltered. Pure heat licked along Bilbo’s spine when he was the focus of that burning gaze. He had not felt so overwhelmed by the sheer force of another being’s personality since he stood before Smaug, but standing before Thorin now he felt the same weight, as if he might be incinerated or devoured alive.

Bilbo swallowed, but he held his ground as Thorin stepped forward. His eyes held Bilbo’s, hypnotic; his face revealed nothing. 

“You might have been a prince in Erebor. I would have set you above even my kin.” Thorin spoke: smooth, dark velvet, his eyes hooded, one hand clenched in a fist. “All my kingdom would have been yours for the asking.”

“That wasn’t what I wanted.” He swallowed hard. “I wanted only to stand at your side.”

Thorin huffed, familiar annoyance, so painfully like his old self even in this moment that it made Bilbo ache to reach out and touch him.

“I see the secret of your successes now. It was not you at all.” Thorin’s gaze slid down, and Bilbo drew back a step, automatically placing himself-- placing the Ring-- outside Thorin’s reach. The Ring had weight too, and it dragged against him as he stepped back, sawing at the chain. 

“I can see talking to you was a bad idea.” Bilbo licked his lips, nervous, and stepped back again. “I would say it’s good to see you well, but obviously you aren’t.” He glanced aside, checking automatically for a way out if he had to bolt; Thorin was broad and looked slow, but he could strike like a snake when he wanted.

His inattention was his undoing-- Thorin’s hand shot out as his gaze flickered away, and it caught the back of his neck in fingers strong as steel.

Art by [Willietheplaidjacket](http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/commission) (http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/commission)

“Was it you or your Ring that bewitched me?” Thorin’s breath was hot against his cheek, and Bilbo struggled in vain against his hand. 

“Neither, actually.” Bilbo tried to keep his calm, tried to sound normal, but he couldn’t breathe. “Your bewitchment is none of my--”

Thorin’s teeth sank sharply at his throat and Bilbo squeaked to a halt. His trembling hands fisted in the lush fur that lined Thorin’s coat. Half bite, half kiss, the contact lit him up to the very tips of his toes, a shuddering pulse of liquid heat. Thorin’s lips dragged against the sensitive flesh, sending a cascade of sparks shivering along Bilbo’s spine before he withdrew, leaving Bilbo trembling, undone.

“Think on what you might have had, both in pleasure and in power, if not for your treason.” Thorin’s eyes burned. “And get out of my sight before I take your treasure and leave you cold and dark, as you left me.”

He dropped his grasp and turned away; Bilbo covered the mark with his hand and fled on stumbling feet.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli sings for Legolas.
> 
> Artwork by the sweet and amazing [Sakurita94](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing) (http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing).

Rivendell became a madhouse of activity over the next few days. Thranduil’s party left first, riding out before dawn on the day after the council with little to say to anyone. Then men of Rohan and Gondor then departed to carry tidings of Aragorn to their people and start the work of raising armies. The folk of Lothlórien were slower to leave and parted with sadness from their Rivendell kinsmen. However, they too prepared to ride out before the day grew old.

Elrond called them together for a parting breakfast, for Aragorn’s sword had been re-forged and the gathering in Rivendell came to an end. Gimli stood in attendance as Elrond presented the blade.

“This is Andúril, flame of the west. Wield it with honor and in hope.” Elrond set the sword on Aragorn’s outstretched arms, and Gimli marked Arwen standing nearby, her color high, her eyes fixed on the lad. The corners of her mouth curved upward, and for a moment Gimli knew envy that Aragorn had no doubt of her regard for him.

The sword was well-crafted, a magnificent example of Arvegil’s skill, though he privately thought the thing far too long for practicality. Aragorn had to stretch to the very extent of his arm to get it to go into its sheath. Gimli blew a stray strand of his mustache away from his lips, concealing his impatience with the ceremony. Perhaps the length of the blade had to do with an effort to convince outsiders of its wielder’s potency. Such were the conceits and insecurities of men.

The lady Galadriel stood by, waiting for her turn, and when the sword was duly sheathed and belted to Aragorn’s waist, she stood forth to take her leave of them. She set her hand upon Bilbo’s head, smiling down on him. “You missed your chance to have a gift before, but I have made this for you,” she handed him a small crystal phial. “This holds the light of Earendil-- from the silmaril set on the prow of Vingilot, the evening star, set in water from my fountain. Let it be a light for you in dark places when all other lights go out.” 

Bilbo took the phial and thanked her politely, but the lady’s gift did not seem to lift the trouble from his heart; his face was haggard, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and he spoke little since returning from his discussion with Thorin Oakenshield. Gimli thought him fey and uncaring, as one who no longer reckoned what he might stand to lose, because he had already lost all that ever mattered to him. He wore the Ring now on a sturdy chain about his neck, that it would not fall from his pocket and be lost. It troubled Gimli to see him clutch his hand over it.

Galadriel gave tokens to the men, as well: fine knives chased in silver, then kissed both Legolas and Gimli upon the forehead, smiling on them. “You have my gifts already. Go now with my blessing on you. I will return to the wood and prepare my people for the coming of war,” she said, her smile tempered with sadness. “I look to see you in Lothlórien before the war is done.” So saying, she set her face toward the east, and her elves followed her away. 

“Do not grieve overmuch, Gimli,” Legolas said softly as the dwarf stood, watching the lady’s procession wind its way up toward the lip of the valley. “The lady knows much of what is hidden. One day you will walk in Lothlórien.”

“Then I hope you will go with me,” Gimli told him. “For I would not know what to do with myself among so many elves without you by my side.”

Legolas smiled and boosted Gimli onto Bellas, then vaulted up after him. “I have not forgotten my vow to ask what the wraith offered to tempt you,” he said softly in Gimli’s ear, wrapping a steadying arm about Gimli’s waist. “But I am content to wait until you are ready to tell.”

Gimli swallowed hard and shivered to feel Legolas pressed so close behind-- but this time he understood himself. He was not in dread of being forced; truly, it had never been. Rather, he had feared his own pleasure in the sensation of the elf’s lean strength close behind him, and had sought to deny it. 

Gimli let his hand drift to lie atop the elf’s vambrace, unable to stop the words that welled from his throat. “It offered my heart’s deepest desire, of course,” he said, low. “It would have me take the Ring and command what I wanted; it would have me believe there was no other hope of having it.”

“Yes.” Legolas did not stir to escape his hand, his voice hesitant, very soft. Gimli could feel a faint trembling in him. “Such was its offer to me, and it told me much the same.”

“Yet we agreed the wraith would lie.” Gimli's heart beat fast and hard, as if it might burst within his chest. 

“Yes.” Legolas’s voice was the softest of warm breaths against his ear. “It lied. There is always hope.”

They climbed steadily, passing the smithy. Hearing hooves, Arvegil came out to see them go. He still held a hammer, and he smiled on on the company as they climbed. He spared a sly wink for Gimli, who flushed and nodded to him. 

All was not well, however; as they set forth, Thorin’s dwarves also made ready to leave the valley. Before the fellowship had gone far south, Aragorn pointed out a column of dust behind them on the road, raised by the dwarves’ ponies. 

“They follow our track, heading south.”

“Thorin’s intent is confirmed.” Gandalf glared at the horizon. “Of all the foolish burdens we did not need! Almost I wish I had never bestirred him to reclaim Erebor.”

Bilbo shot the wizard a dark look, but did not speak. His hand strayed toward the chain upon his breast, then settled again on the reins.

They traveled swiftly for several hours, for their horses were fresh and the riders eager to set forth. The weather continued fair but hot, and Gimli and the men sweated under the brilliant sunlight, though the elves did not seem to mind it. 

Glorfindel rode in the vanguard with Bilbo mounted before him. He seemed to believe he led their party as much as Gandalf, his long waving hair streaming out behind him on the breeze. He sang joyfully after the manner of Noldorin elves, some foolish doggerel Gimli could only half understand, a song of the sort Glóin had recounted from his arrival at Rivendell when the elves sang to mock their dwarvish guests. The elf-lord might be valiant and fearsome in battle, but he annoyed Gimli with his merriment.

“Hark at Goldilocks singing,” he muttered. “As if we were not bound for battle and likely death!” In truth he knew little of the elf, but he feared a repeat of Legolas’s swift bonding with Haldir. 

“It is at such times when joyful songs are best sung,” Ecthelion, son of the steward of Gondor, intoned with great pomposity, sitting sober and erect on his charger, clad all in heavy black velvet despite the hot sun. “In times of dread we must look to lighten the mood and speed the foot that would else lag upon the road.”

Thengel of Rohan also rode near, and rolled his eyes at the steward’s son, for he was a merry lad, light of heart and quick to jest. “It is a bright day and the grass is green; my horse and I are rested and we have turned our faces homeward. I need no more sober cause to be merry.”

“Perhaps you would sing for us before the day is done, Gimli,” Legolas said. “For I have not heard you sing since we traveled next to Anduin.”

“I thought my song not much to your liking,” Gimli said, gruff but not displeased by the request. “You stared at me with such apparent distaste that I fell silent after.”

“Say it is not so!” Legolas’s voice sharpened with dismay. “Call it not distaste, but wonder. Never had I heard such singing. It made me wish to know how dwarves sound deep in their caverns far from the sight of moon or star, when singing for the love of kin and hearth and craft of hands.”

“We should all take our turns and sing around the fire,” Aragorn suggested. “And share the lore of our peoples.”

“The folk of Gondor have much lore,” Ecthelion eyed the young ranger with open dislike. “So much we may not bequeath it all to idle curiosity of listeners in haste over fire and food.”

“That might be said of all our kindreds,” Gimli spoke before Aragorn could answer. “Yet we are come together in fellowship, and it is fitting we should share what we may. I will sing, and Legolas, and I would hear songs of the Shire and the Dúnedain and of Rohan also. And of Gondor, if our stern comrade here can decide what great lore is fitting to share with the likes of us.” 

“You quarrel like sparrows,” Glorfindel was plainly disgruntled at hearing so much talk when he believed his own voice should take precedence. “If you would have us all sing, then we should listen to one another in politeness.”

Gandalf scowled and shook his head in exasperation at them all. “If you are determined to bicker among yourselves, then I shall sing myself, and you will all long for quiet ere I finish!”

Gimli subsided, abashed. 

*****

The fellowship reluctantly settled around the fire after setting camp for the evening. Bilbo let the wizard prompt him to stand first, clearing his throat and looking nervously around at the company. 

“Yes, well. I wrote this while we lodged in the valley, meant for Aragorn.” His eyes hesitated on Ecthelion’s stony face, but he spoke boldly anyway, lifting his chin.

_All that is gold does not glitter,_  
_Not all those who wander are lost;_  
_The old that is strong does not wither,_  
_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._  
_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_  
_A light from the shadows shall spring;_  
_Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_  
_The crownless again shall be king._

Ecthelion huffed and tossed a branch on the fire, sending a shower of sparks skyward. “Gondor has no king.” He paused, all eyes on him. “Gondor needs no king.”

Gimli felt Legolas surge upward to defend Aragorn and stopped him, tugging him back down. “Sit down, laddie,” he murmured. “Words are of little measure next to deeds. Our friend’s deeds will speak loudly to support him, I am sure!” He gave Ecthelion a flat stare nonetheless. 

“Well-done, Bilbo.” Gandalf lit his pipe and smiled on the little hobbit. “Written with skill and with a kind and generous heart.”

“Master Thengel, perhaps you will favor us with a song from your land.” Gimli ventured by way of making peace-- and immediately regretted it when the horse-lord rendered a barroom tune extolling the merits of serving wenches of dubious virtue. Or at least Gimli thought it was so, but he could not be sure, since most of the song relied on elaborate double-meanings, and his command of Westron did not stretch to accommodate such ribaldry. 

When it was done, Ecthelion rose and stalked away to his tent, and Glorfindel began to sing an elaborate lay with Aragorn joining in to provide harmony. 

Legolas’s hand touched Gimli’s to seek his attention, and after a moment the elf rose, stepping away from the campfire.

Remembering their talk before leaving Rivendell, Gimli gave it another verse before he too slipped away. His heart pounding with a strange combination of dread and anticipation, he followed the elf and found him waiting not far outside the firelight. Legolas smiled on him and led him deeper into the wood, finding a secluded nook for them in a low dell where a spring emerged from beneath the roots of a tall hemlock and trickled over its mossy rocks. The air smelled secret, wet and green, with a dark, rich undertone of earth. Gimli felt his heart beat hard and fast as Legolas sank down easily next to a crumbling log and turned to him. 

“I thought the gathering tonight an uncomfortable one,” he confessed. “It is hard to see how we will bond to make a fellowship with so much rivalry and mistrust among us.” He patted the ground at his side. “I wished to be away from the strife for a time, I confess it.” 

Gimli joined him, sitting as closely as he dared. 

“Will you sing for me?” 

Gimli hesitated, thinking. He knew many songs that were judged right to sing in company, songs written in Westron that told of dwarves, but such did not seem right to him to sing before Legolas. “I have not the skill to translate as I go, so I must sing in my own tongue.” He shut his eyes and began to hum, centering himself until he felt the stone resonate with his heart, and the roots and bones of the fair country about them bearing him up with awareness, listening as he sang.

Secure that the elf knew no Khuzdul, Gimli chose an old ballad of a female Firebeard whose lover was a Blacklock: hated by her whole clan, but especially by her brothers, who drove him forth with axes and forbade him return to her on pain of death. The mournful notes of the refrain rumbled in his chest-- “Unlike are we,” he sang over and again at the end of each verse, closing his eyes in his sympathy for the long-dead dwarrowdam and her forbidden lover.

Legolas sat so near Gimli he could feel the elf’s breath on his ear. Slowly his friend crept closer, first laying his hand upon Gimli’s breast, then pressing his chest against Gimli’s back, immersing himself in the song as if he were become a part of Gimli, feeling the call of the stone and the strength of the earth through him.

“More?” Legolas breathed, and Gimli sang on, pausing to hum while he considered his choices, tipping his head back to gaze up through the tangled branches of trees at the stars. The elf bent his head forward over Gimli’s shoulder, both his arms sliding to curl around Gimli’s chest, the better to feel the rumble of his song. 

Amazing art by [Sakurita94](http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing) (http://sakurita94.tumblr.com/tagged/drawing)

Gimli felt his body respond to the embrace, his heart hammering harder, his cock stirring in his breeches, rousing to the elf’s touch. 

Still Legolas held him, and his breath and the beat of his heart fell into rhythm with Gimli’s, so the two were very nearly one: stone and earth and green wood and star curled together next to flowing water in breathless, quiet joy. Gimli's song faded slowly into silence.

“Your _fëa_ is alight with sweet fire,” Legolas whispered in tones of awe. “Can you see?”

Gimli opened his eyes and blinked; he could see the cool starlit glow of the elf’s pale flesh-- subtle but persistent, lighting the mist around them-- but his own skin was dark as always, unlit. And yet the gathering droplets around them shone with faint hints of silver and gold, a subtle mingling of starlight and firelight as if they reflected what the elf saw, though Gimli himself saw no fire.

Gimli tipped his head slightly, offering his face, longing for the press of the elf’s narrow lips there, but Legolas merely leaned in, breathing deeply as if scenting him. Gimli shivered with wanting, his cock straining now, his balls starting to ache with need. Legolas only sighed, content, and then began to sing quietly himself, liquid syllables that slid over Gimli with the same pervasive softness as the mist.

 _What are we becoming?_ The question burned in Gimli’s brain as he felt Legolas press his cheek close, nestling against Gimli’s ear. The more frequently these moments of sweet closeness happened, the more he understood Legolas only behaved this way toward him. As far as Gimli could tell, he had never offered to touch or embrace any of their other companions for fondness, not even Haldir. 

They were more than friends now, Gimli guessed, though still considerably less than lovers, and if their tryst tonight was not to end in lovemaking… then he was confused by the extra attention. He did not understand elvish ways. If it had been a dwarf he wished to court, they would have begun as inseparable friends who butted heads, rivaled one another in contests of drinking and song, slapped one another on the back, made bawdy jokes, argued over who had the more daring piercings, the best tattoos, the longer beard. 

Then as attraction grew they would make gifts for one another. They would touch one another often, and there would be fire between them: attraction crackling beneath any casual touch, hot sparks flying whenever their eyes met. Finally one would have followed the other home and been invited in; the evening would have ended in bed. Afterward their braidings would change, and they would know by the other’s change what sort of bond they had forged together.

He knew so little of the customs of elves! He ought to have asked Arvegil when he had the chance. 

Legolas’s song gradually lulled him, easing the prickle of Gimli’s frustrated desire and replacing it with deep peace. Gimli closed his eyes, relaxing slowly, and did not know he slept until he roused to the pale glimmering rose of dawn, Legolas’s body still wrapped gently around him, supporting him and keeping him warm.

Gimli stretched against the chill ground, grumbling. “Elf,” he rumbled, deep and sleepy. “Did you keep me from my blankets for the whole night?” For a fleeting instant he might almost imagine he had been caught in a faerie spell-- seduced from home and kin, led away into the wild, and ravished by an immortal lover, only to awaken many, many years after he had vanished, the whole world changed and made strange around him. 

It might almost be true.

Gimli looked ruefully at his lap-- a part that had awakened along with him, fierce and eager, craving the elf. 

Legolas released him and stretched, graceful and easy-- though Gimli was rather less at ease, his muscles stiff, chilled after long hours in the unfamiliar position. He struggled to his feet in gradual stages, trying to turn away from the elf so to hide his state of arousal. 

Legolas looked fresh and cool as a spring violet. He turned away toward camp, oblivious to Gimli’s distress. For the love of Mahal. Did elves bud from trees? Gloomily Gimli adjusted himself and trudged back toward camp in the elf’s wake. That was as foolish as men who thought dwarves carved their offspring from the living stone. But regardless of Legolas’s strange behavior, one thing was certain: elves did not offer their flesh to sate the desire of dwarves. Gimli’s aching cock was proof enough of that. 

It did not help that the camp was already awake, and many eyes marked the return of the two truants. Gandalf chuckled to himself with annoying satisfaction, but Gimli knew better than to give the wizard a sour look. It would only make matters worse. Gandalf would be amused as he willed, and none might gainsay him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _fëa_ : Spirit, soul
> 
> The concept and refrain of Gimli's song are loosely based on the Anglo-Saxon poem "Wulf and Eadwacer."


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas finally asks Gimli about his new braid and bead.
> 
> Artwork by the awesomely talented [Cabravitis](http://cabravitis.tumblr.com/) (http://cabravitis.tumblr.com/)

Thengel spied Gimli’s uncomfortable condition at once. He threw back his head and roared with laughter, then clapped Gimli on the shoulder with honest sympathy. “Come, friend dwarf-- work will help. Let us roll up the tents and lade the horses.” Ecthelion merely raised a disapproving brow and turned aside.

Aragorn frowned at them all, belatedly lifting his head from tending a pan of frying meat, then called the group to come and break their fast.

Glorfindel studied Gimli coolly, perfect face inscrutable, shifting his gaze from the dwarf to Legolas and back again. Then he turned away, the very picture of indifference. “Shall we follow the river today or depart it, Gandalf? The country descends and our horses may falter.”

“You must follow the river for a while yet; there are high bluffs we do not want to climb. Stick to the shore. I must away for a time, to visit our fellow travelers and see what I can make of Thorin Oakenshield. Perhaps he may be less intractable now.” 

Bilbo scoffed aloud, and the wizard huffed at him. “No doubt you are right. But I will make the venture nonetheless. Would you like to come along? I thought not. Gimli, you will accompany me then, and Legolas.”

That would do nothing to make Thorin more agreeable, but doubtless the wizard knew it. He must wish for them to be seen together. Gimli shifted, uncomfortable. What would Thorin’s dwarves see when they beheld him with Legolas? Dwarvish craft piercing the elf’s elegant ear, Gimli wearing his heart in his beard, hopeless… and worse, the two of them mounted comfortably close on Bellas, Legolas gallantly helping him alight. Would the elf smile on Gimli, would there be that familiar warmth in his eyes, would his hands linger?

What benefit would that be, if the dwarves witnessed it? It would only hurt his father. 

“It will show them there can be accord between your peoples,” Gandalf said softly, divining his thought. “A thing badly needed, if the west is to prevail against the shadow of Mordor. We cannot afford to fight among ourselves.”

“Then I will go,” Gimli agreed, and knew without asking that Legolas would go with him.

They rode out soon after breaking their fast, backtracking along the river for half a mile until they reached the dwarves’ camp and found them in the process of packing their ponies.

“Hail, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf called, hearty and calm. “I thought it must be you dogging our heels. Why not speed your journey and join our fellowship? There are orcs and trolls and wargs abroad in the wilderness, and numbers give safety.”

“For you, maybe, this is a thing to be desired. But my folk have no need of numbers or wizards’ tricks to deal with orcs.” Thorin scowled at them with no sign of welcome.

“You have tricks of your own, do you?” A flicker of sharpness there, claws deliberately revealed and just as carefully sheathed again. “I do not doubt it. And yet there is no need for discord between the free peoples of Middle Earth. Come, Legolas, Gimli. Let us join the company of Thorin for a time, and today we will journey together.” 

Thorin’s jaw tightened, but he nodded to his dwarves and they mounted their ponies, beginning the careful trek along the waterside. Gimli caught his father’s eye and inclined his head, an invitation; Glóin scowled, but heeled his pony near, and they fell in behind the company, riding a bit apart.

“My son.” His voice was gruff.

“It is good to see you, father.” Gimli knew he was blushing, and could not help but be aware of Legolas’s long, slim body rocking suggestively against his as the horse walked. 

“Aye, well. It is good to see _you,_ ” Glóin muttered, making an obvious distinction. “Can you not leave that dreadful beast?” He did not specify whether he meant the horse or the elf. 

“Bellas is faithful and strong,” Gimli said mildly. “If a bit long in the shanks. I have grown used to him.” 

“I suppose it is possible to grow used to anything.” Glóin scowled. 

“I certainly hope you will find it possible.” Gimli raised a brow, driving home his point, and felt Legolas shift behind him, as if stifling a laugh.  
Glóin growled and directed his attention to the path, guiding his pony with unnecessary care. Gimli could overhear Gandalf just ahead, speaking to Thorin.

“Well, it is plain to me that you mean to reclaim Moria, old friend. I hope you have bethought yourself of Durin’s Bane. Have you a plan to deal with it, or do you plan merely to battle orcs?”

“My plans are none of your affair.”

“It would seem that in either case you will want a mighty company of dwarves to aid in the battle and to work the mines thereafter. Will your allies cross the mountains, or seek to join you via the east gate?”

Thorin merely scowled and refused to speak. 

Their path shifted, ascending a sharp rise, and Legolas slid his left arm about Gimli’s waist to steady him, a gesture that made Glóin go purple in the face. Gimli swallowed and laid his hand over the elf’s vambrace, as he would if none were watching. Let the other dwarves see kindness and trust between him and the elf; it was no shameful thing to be hidden. 

“Tell me of the work you have done in your forge since I left,” Gimli took pity on his father. “What commissions have you had?”

That much Glóin could answer, and he soon relaxed enough to speak with animation, describing a particularly challenging project involving the construction of an artificial arm for a dwarf who had lost his in the Battle of Five Armies, with the hinges and pulleys and levers it required.

“That is interesting,” Legolas said at length, and Glóin flinched. It seemed he had nearly forgotten the elf. “There are those among my people who were wounded in the battle and would like to have such a thing.”

“It is still a crude tool,” Glóin muttered. “No craftsman can replace flesh with seamless grace. And yet, I have given Náli an arm with a thumb he may use to lift items and move them about. He is there, if you would look.” He pointed, and Legolas craned his head, nodding. 

“I see him, and his arm. Must he use his other hand to activate the lever for the thumb?”

“He must, but once it is set in place, it will stay until it is triggered again.” Glóin frowned, glaring down at his reins. “I have not the knowledge to make it so he can trigger it by thinking.”

“That would be a challenge indeed. Elves have not that skill, either.” Legolas frowned. “I think not even Celebrimbor, working together with Narvi, could have contrived such a thing-- and they were among the greatest crafters of our kinds.”

Glóin’s knuckles went white at the mention of those two, but he nodded, wordless.

“It might be done in such a way that the arm’s owner could trigger the grip with his mouth or chin,” Legolas speculated.

“Making the wires longer or adding extra pulleys makes the mechanism heavier and the grip uncertain.” Glóin sighed with frustration. “More strength must be employed to operate it, too.”

“I am only an archer, and I know little of such things,” Legolas admitted. “But it is a wonder to me to see Náli hold his reins. Your craft is of great value, I think.”

Glóin cleared his throat, uncomfortable. 

“Truly dwarves have superior skill in working metal and things of craft and use-- and beauty,” Legolas said. “Your son was kind enough to fashion a jewel for me, and now many elves in Rivendell wear such.” He tilted his head, drawing attention to his ear, and the sunlight caught on the wires, making them gleam. “Yet none I saw are so well-made as his.”

“Yours is the only one I saw worn properly.” Glóin’s knuckles were still white on the reins, and he directed his gaze straight ahead. “With a commitment to its beauty.”

“And to its maker?” Legolas asked softly. “Yes, to him too. I was first among my kind to name Gimli _elvellon_ , but I have not been the last.”

Glóin glanced at the nearest dwarf, who rode some fifty ells ahead; the river sang merrily in its bed, concealment as Glóin’s voice fell low, a furious hiss. “Speak to me of your commitment when you wear his _o’fih_!”

“ _Maidrib!_ ” Gimli bellowed. The others turned, startled, to stare back at them. 

“I am sorry. I did not mean to offend,” Legolas said quietly. “There is much I do not know of your people and their ways.” Remaining calm, he urged Bellas onward until they rejoined the column, though Gimli knew better than to think that was the last he would hear of the matter. 

“My father does not understand elves any better than you understand dwarves, Legolas.” Gimli tried to make peace between them. “Do not concern yourself that you have acted wrongly.” He glowered at Glóin. “His thought was unfair, and it was not his business to speak of such things. Is that not so, my father?” His voice was cool steel.

“My son’s words are truth.” Glóin gritted between clenched teeth, sounding as if he gargled gravel. “I should not have spoken.”

“Then let us talk again of the works of hands, or of some other thing that is not grounds for disagreement.” Gimli squared his jaw. “The weather is fine, is it not?”

“Aye,” Glóin muttered. “If hot.”

They managed to while away the remainder of the day with somewhat stiff pleasantries, Legolas contributing little, until the dwarves halted for the evening and they rode on to their own camp with Gandalf. 

Legolas showed commendable restraint, remaining silent as they rode back to their party and helped make camp amidst a stand of tall, majestic oaks. He undertook to care for the horses, fetching water from the stream and giving them fodder while Gimli and the others pitched the tents. Finally the elf approached him when all others were busy around the fire, beginning preparations for supper.

“What is an _o’fih_?” Legolas asked, with all the ruthless inevitability of a sunrise. Gimli sighed. 

“It is a token, a set of adornments, worn by those who have made vows to one another. The vows can take many forms, but most often they are worn by couples who are betrothed or married.” He told the simple truth-- perhaps too simple, omitting the signals and braidings of a dwarf whose One did not return his love, or could not yet, or a thousand other chances and degrees of the binding. 

“Oh.” Legolas blinked with surprise and paused to consider that at length. “Does your father wish us to wed?” He sounded quite uncertain when he finally spoke again.

That was a question Gimli could answer with absolute certainty. “He does not.” 

“I do not understand, then.”

Gimli felt the heaviness of the gold bead in his braid, but would not speak further of it. “There are many traditions among my people involving jewels and binding. It was perhaps a bit... unusual of me to ornament you as I did, for simple friendship.” In truth, he had not expected the elf to accept.

“Oh. Then I should have paid you for my jewel?” Legolas touched his ear, fingertips exploring.

“I asked no payment and wanted none!” Gimli had to speak the truth or burst. “Do not let it trouble you. We are not bound by the traditions of either of our people. We must find our own ground.”

“That is so.” Legolas reached forward, hesitated for a moment, then in one delicate motion his fingers advanced and curled, and he dared to lift a braid from Gimli’s beard: the single three-strand plait woven with the golden bead of his pledge at its tip. “I have told you what the jewels you made for me mean in my heart. What means this? I noticed you began to wear your beard thus in Rivendell, but I could not explain it.” His fingertips touched the bead, turning it, examining the carvings.

Beautiful art by [Cabravitis](http://http://cabravitis.tumblr.com/) (http://cabravitis.tumblr.com/)

Gimli flushed deeply. For the elf to touch his beard so intimately, knowing only a lover should, and to handle the very bead that told his heart...! If Legolas were a dwarf, it would mean sure understanding of his devotion. Coming from any other elf, it would mean disrespect. But from this elf, it meant more than he had ever dared hope might exist between them. 

Legolas found the engraved beech leaf, and his thumb rubbed over the carving, his eyes thoughtful.

Gimli shivered and cast down his gaze, remembering his father’s wrath, then thinking of Thranduil. His heart sank. They could never be together, not even if Legolas desired it as much as he did. There was too much distance and discord between their peoples. 

“It has meaning for me, aye. But I never intended to speak openly of it, when it was made.” He met Legolas’s gaze once more, remembering how the elf had held him as he sang. “Perhaps I will tell you one day,” he ventured, his voice hoarse, “but until the secret ripens, it is mine to keep.” He closed his hand around Legolas’s. If they both survived the coming war....

“I will wait for ripeness,” Legolas said softly, caressing Gimli’s braid and tugging it lightly in a manner that made his heart race. 

“Impertinent elf,” he tried to grumble, but the fondness in his voice spoiled his scowl. He glanced aside, feeling a need to change the subject, and spied Bilbo standing nearby, staring down at the ground, the fingers of one hand clutching and releasing around a small brown object.

He became aware they were looking at him, and his cheeks flushed. “So many acorns.” He held out his hand, showing the one he held, its cup sprung loose from the nut. “Every one of them might become a tree. But so many of them won’t, you know?” He swallowed, nervous. “I could plant them all and never tell what might come of it. Some of them will thrive and live to be strong for hundreds of years. Others will wither or be blasted by lightning.”

Legolas flashed Gimli a swift, speaking look and went to Bilbo’s side.

“Squirrels plant them and forget them.” He seemed on the verge of tears, his lip quivering once before he firmed it. “I took one from the gardens of Beorn and sowed it in my own garden. Maybe it will make a tree, back in the Shire.” He looked away, seeming lost in an aching memory. 

“We could plant that one here,” Legolas suggested softly. “Put a wish in its cup and see what will grow of it?”

“Bitter fruit,” Bilbo tried to smile. “But the squirrels will be grateful for it.”

Gimli left them dibbling holes in the mould and putting acorns inside them. 

“Gandalf, I am troubled in my heart.” He sat down beside the wizard and pulled out his pipe, then offered Gandalf a pinch from his pouch. “The halfling is melancholy, almost fey. I was not there for the Battle of the Five Armies, but I have heard the tales of how his friendship with Thorin was lost.”

“I share your concern, Gimli. Bilbo was wise, and he acted with courage,” Gandalf sighed, tamping the weed into the bowl of his own pipe. “It is not his fault that his attempt to broker peace went astray. Nor was it his fault Thorin will not see reason, yet he has paid a heavy price. ” The wizard reached to kindle Gimli’s pipe with a spark from his fingertip, then lit his own. 

Gimli thought of his own friendship with Legolas, and of what his father had been very careful not to say regarding Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield-- and of Bilbo’s coat of mail. Mithril beyond price, a treasure of Erebor. 

“The heart of the mountain,” Gandalf sighed. “It is a wondrous gem, and despite the manner of its finding, I think it must have been wrought by Fëanor himself as he learned mastery of his craft, then lost in the earth only to rise again in Erebor. It has proved nearly as perilous in its own way as a silmaril.”

“The heart of Thorin was not given to a gem at first, no matter how great its beauty.” Gimli puffed at his pipe. “Do not forget, I know the ways of dwarves better than any here. The halfling’s mithril coat….”

“Meant much the same as the jewel Legolas wears?” Gandalf gave him a wry wink. “Yes. I know the ways of dwarven courtship gifts.” He did not pause to let Gimli protest or deny. “Yet, Legolas did not accept your gift and then betray the very foundations of your trust. Perhaps if he had you, too, would have reacted as poorly.” He sighed. “That is in part my fault, but I could not help it. If not for the Necromancer, I could have met the company on Durin’s day as I planned, and I would have been there to aid Thorin in resisting the dragon’s spell and the gold sickness alike. Yet by the time I returned, both had twined themselves so fiercely about his soul I could not reach him. Wounded by Bilbo’s betrayal, he does not wish to be reached. I almost believe he desires his own ruin.” 

I would gladly forego all gold before I chose to fall so low,” Gimli answered him soberly. “And should my companions seek to reach me and turn me aside from folly, I hope I would have the wit to listen, for they have grown more precious to me than any other treasure.” 

“A wise thought,” Gandalf counseled. “I wish Thorin Oakenshield thought as wisely. But he is determined to repeat old errors and will not reconsider his course. Not on pain of death!” He sighed. “We must wait and see what is to come of his stubbornness. I cannot move him. Maybe Bilbo yet can. And I have hope for the others, your father among them. They are not so blind or cowed as Thorin may believe.” He puffed and the glow of the burning weed lit his face with flame-red shadow. “Moria may prove a sore trial for both their loyalty and their mettle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _elvellon_ : elf-friend  
>  _o'fih_ : art of the bead  
>  _maidrib_ : be stopped


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treachery from an unexpected source overtakes a member of the Fellowship.
> 
> Artwork by the truly brilliant Willie the Plaid Jacket ( http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/ )

The party of dwarves lingered behind the fellowship through many long marches, paralleling their course, but when both parties had passed over the border of Eregion, the dwarves speeded their pace and camped near enough the Fellowship that their cooking fire might be seen through the woods. 

“They will turn aside in the morning and make for the west gate of Moria,” Gandalf predicted. 

Gimli scowled at the glimmer of firelight for a time, then picked himself up. Gandalf’s words regarding Moria had troubled him. He had thought long on Thorin’s plan, and could not bear to see Glóin give himself to such an evil. He could not let his father go into Moria without a last attempt to turn him from his chosen course. 

Legolas moved to go with him, but Gimli reached out a hand to forestall the elf. “No. I must go to see my father, and I will go alone,” he said. Legolas subsided, reluctant, as Gimli turned and went stamping through the brush toward his kin. He and Glóin had an argument to continue.

It was not long before the dwarves’ sentry spotted him.

“Halt,” the voice belonged to Dwalin, hard and unyielding. “I see you, Gimli. Come no farther.”

“I would speak to my father.”

Dwalin called over his shoulder and Glóin soon came forward, squinting into the darkness.

“Gimli.” He bowed stiffly. They stepped near, so they could speak in gestures and Dwalin could not witness or overhear them. 

“We will pass you in the morning and continue south until we reach the west gate.”

“And what will you do there?”

“We will go in and drive forth the orcs and Durin’s Bane.”

“There are not twenty of you.”

“The king is assured of victory.”

“The lord of Mordor has ever dealt in untruths and betrayal.”

“Then we have plans of our own that will work.”

“The wizard knows you mean to be met by other dwarves. Share the plans with me.”

“No.”

Gimli bowed his head, anguished to think his father might die out of misplaced faith in his king. “Drive forth the orcs and Durin’s Bane?” He repeated the signals slowly. “Where will you drive them?” 

He remembered Legolas’s words in Dale regarding the disposal of the dragon, and his stomach slowly seized, wanting to sick up his supper. 

“Wherever we may.” Glóin glared fiercely.

“And when you drive the evil forth upon the elves of the Golden Wood, they will defeat him for you, as the men of Laketown defeated Smaug?” he signed with shaking fingers. “Then I suppose Thorin plans to renege upon his bargain with Mordor and keep Moria for his own, once there are no foes left with strength to oppose him!”

“Leave your foolish elf and come with us. We will claim riches beyond compare!” Glóin’s fingers quivered with eagerness. 

“This plan is a thing of evil.” Gimli thought of the lady, and laid his hand upon his breast, where he bore the small pouch that carried the braided coil of Galadriel’s hair.

‘Over you gold will have no dominion,’ she had spoken to him, and in this moment Gimli understood her words for simple truth, and for a great and merciful blessing.

“I need no such poor riches as you dangle before me.” Tears stung his eyes. “For I am rich in friends and honor.” 

“You have no honor if you do not obey your king!”

“My king has cast me off, and I am glad.” Gimli shook his head. “My father, this is folly.”

“The folly is not mine,” Glóin’s eyes sparkled, and Gimli realized Glóin was near weeping as he spoke the words aloud: “You guess too shrewdly, my son.”

A sack dragged over Gimli’s head as something solid struck his temple, and he knew no more.

*****

The night wore on and Legolas fretted to himself, trying to appear calm as he waited for Gimli’s return, but in truth, he could barely sit still, and would not eat or drink.

Gandalf’s shrewd gaze marked his unease, and after a time the wizard spoke. “Scout, if you are troubled, but take care. The dwarves will have sentries, and it would be best if they do not see you. If you do not return by middle-night--”

Legolas was moving before the first sentence left the wizard’s mouth, and slipped away into the trees without waiting to hear the end. Surely Gimli was well, but his heart misgave him. He did not like that his friend had gone alone. 

He leaped and grasped the branch of a mighty oak, swinging himself into its branches. The dwarves would have no sentries aloft; he might go where he pleased, as long as he kept silent.

He advanced steadily-- but was surprised to find their campfire almost under his heels, with no sign of any dwarves to be found. All was silent, and the night creatures were at ease, their small sounds undisturbed. There was no one here.

Legolas dropped to the forest floor and seized a branch from the fire, hurriedly scanning as much ground as he could. He found no signs of a real camp, but many of departure toward Moria. Not pausing longer, he set forth to follow them, glad the moon gave enough light to show the trampling of the dwarves. It was not hard to read their tracks now he had found them; the scent of the ponies’ dung would have been enough, at need.

He tracked the dwarves toward the mountain, deciding to abandon caution in favor of speed and taking to the trees. Their path remained straight as an arrow until they struck the dry channel of what had once been a deep, narrow stream, now a mud-caked gully with only a trickle of water in its bottom. Then it turned east and led slowly toward the mountains, following a clear path. Legolas left the trees and began to run along the pathway, fleet of foot and tireless as the shoulders of the mountain rose, glowing cold white in the light of the waning moon. 

The path finally reached a cliff where water dripped in a sluggish stream from a deep cleft in the stone, and Legolas hesitated at its top, unsure how to go on. A crudely piled stonework dam blocked the cleft and a lake had swelled behind it, swallowing the path, leaving the husks of dead trees standing forlorn in the still, black water. The lake mirrored no star or moon, a flat dull black that made Legolas shift uneasily away from the verge, where slow ripples lapped against the turf. 

When he finally found their tracks, the way led north, picking its way along the shore that bounded the little lake, so he followed them, taking care not to wet his feet. Soon he could see torches before him now, so he moved with care: he had caught up to the dwarves at last. 

He made his way as close as he dared, noting a sack-shrouded burden lying over the back of one of the ponies. It struggled a bit as if kicking, and a dwarf slapped it, saying something the elf could not hear.

Wrath rose hot in his heart, and he thought of fitting an arrow to the string. He might pick them off one by one-- but conscience stopped him. Gimli was still alive, after all, and counted his family and friends among the company.

The dwarves halted then before a blank space of wall bounded by two tall holly trees, their ancient branches laden with dark, glossy leaves. Legolas watched as Thorin stood forth, lifting his hands, and a crack appeared in the wall, two arched doors swinging outward. The dwarves filed in as Legolas ran to catch them up, but the lake stood in his way and he was forced to detour. By the time he arrived the doors were closed, the pale glowing lines that marked their place fading. Unladen ponies milled about, nickering with dismay, abandoned.

Legolas pushed against the doors with frantic urgency, slapping his palms against unyielding stone, but the portal was no more. He laid his head against the portal in despair.

Beautiful artwork by Willie the Plaid Jacket ( http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/ )

“Gimli, _mellon nîn!"_ he cried, and was startled when the doors shuddered beneath his hands and began to swing outward. He very nearly stumbled into the lake, but recovered swiftly and darted through the crack as soon as it was wide enough to admit him.

Before him, torches flickered far down one dark passage. Legolas did not pause to consider caution or prudence, diving after them before they could vanish and leave him lost in the blind dark.

The door whispered shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _mellon nîn_ : My friend


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas pursues Gimli into Moria and Thorin's company reaches the Chamber of Mazarbul.

Moria: the black pit. Never had a name been so truthfully given! Legolas hurried along in the wake of the dwarves, following too close for comfort but not daring to fall back farther lest he be lost. The place was a warren of tunnels and levels, and unlike a dwarf, he could see nothing in darkness. He was fortunate they had chosen to carry torches. If not, he would have been forced to give himself up at once.

He was glad he could move noiselessly, his soft leather boots as quiet on the stone as they were in the loam of the Greenwood. But he had cause to regret his haste to pursue Gimli; he had brought no water or food, and he had no way to make fire. He might find water here to drink, if he dared partake of what he discovered, but there would be no food or light until he emerged.

Gimli would know Legolas followed; there could be no doubt of that. Just as Legolas knew Gandalf would come after them both, if he must. Yet he could not afford to wait. 

As the dwarves paused, Legolas darted down the slope toward their torches. Then he halted, pressing himself behind a fold of stone. The dwarves stopped and set down their burden, then yanked the sacks away from him, revealing Gimli-- his hair and clothes mussed, his eyes blazing, one of them blackened where he had been struck.

He spat at the captor who unhooded him, growling angry words-- but Legolas could understand none of the Khuzdul the dwarves spoke. 

They pointed to the path ahead, and Legolas could see a dark seam lying across the road: empty space, through which the pulsing sound of machinery roared and groaned from the deeps. Obviously Gimli was too heavy to carry across; they would all have to jump separately. The elf winced; the gap was more than twice the height of a dwarf, and each of them was burdened with heavy armor and weapons.

The foremost dwarf backed away from the edge, then took a running leap and bounded across. Others followed, some of them rolling as they landed, others remaining upright. He held his breath as Gimli took his turn, but he made it with inches to spare and his father caught him as he stumbled, helping him up. Gimli shoved his father away, obviously displeased with Glóin, but Legolas was glad the old dwarf cared at least that much for his son.

Legolas easily leaped over the wide chasm, landing lightly on the other side, and caught them up once more, staying closer now so he could see if there were any more obstructions across the path. He would hate to walk forward into space and fall; the chasms might reach so far down it could be long minutes before he hit the ground below.

He did not like the smell or feel of this place. It reeked of death and filth and orcs; he was sure there were dens of them nearby: hundreds and thousands of the filthy things, more than enough to overwhelm Thorin’s party utterly. And where there were orcs, there would be cave trolls and a whole host of other vile creatures.

Legolas felt better with the hilt of his knife in his hand. 

Thorin moved purposefully through the halls, seeming as if he knew precisely where he was going, choosing quickly at every junction. Their path led upward more often than down, and Legolas was glad of that. He felt buried and smothered, oppressed by tons of hanging stone. He wondered how the dwarves could bear it; the whole place had the feel of a tomb. 

Most of the dwarves were moving swiftly, but it seemed Gimli was lagging, and Legolas frowned to see his friend limp. Had he injured himself landing? Soon he was last of the party, and the others started to chivvy him, but he merely limped on doggedly, moving just a little slower than the leaders.

Then he shot a look over his shoulder, a rapidly-snatched look, and Legolas’s heart sang with joy. The next time Gimli glanced back, he let himself be seen.

Gimli did not look again. He speeded himself until he caught up with the group once more, using his axe-handle as a walking stick. 

Thorin spoke, too loudly for prudence, but Legolas could understand nothing. He hung back, uncertain, taking care not to touch the wall in the alcove where he crouched. The stones gleamed with an unwholesome, gelatinous moisture that made his skin crawl. Something fluttered overhead, and Legolas flinched-- a bat, disturbed from its roost, took wing and darted down the passageway. He might have cursed; he had grown careless among the lifeless passages, but it seemed there was an egress near this place.

The bat brought the dwarves to high alert; they drew weapons and faced back down the passage toward Legolas, who stilled with thundering heart, hoping they would not investigate. 

One spoke and nudged Gimli, laughing. Gimli scowled at him, but set out with great caution, peering about as he took a torch and advanced down the hall toward Legolas, poking the haft of his axe into nooks and crannies as he came.

He continued until he faced Legolas, making no expression, then lifted his head and raised his axe to prod at the ceiling of the nook. A dozen or more bats erupted in fluttering disarray, chittering wildly. The dwarves laughed, and Gimli called back down toward them with contempt in his voice. 

It took all the will Legolas possessed to remain still, his heart hammering in his chest, but he did. Gimli made no sign, but moved on briefly, exploring the corridor down to the last turn before returning to the others. 

*****

The elf. The beautiful, brave, reckless fool of an elf! Gimli could hardly contain himself; his heart pounded with gladness-- and dread, that Legolas had entered Moria for him. But he had known the elf would follow, if he could. Could he even see in the blackness? Gimli thought not. Beloved elf. Of all the feeble-minded, soft-headed, ill-considered tomfoolery he had ever witnessed, this was far the worst. His heart swelled with love, so much he thought it might break. 

“There are only bats, disturbed by our passing!” He called down the hall, cross. “You jump at shadows!” He made a show of checking the tunnel down to the turn, then returned, unable to glance aside again for fear of revealing Legolas’s position. 

“Perhaps. We have bypassed the occupied areas thus far, but we will have to fight sooner or later.” Thorin lifted his torch, the fierce light catching silver threads in his dark hair, turning them red. “Yet we are on time. Within hours Dáin and our kin from the Ered Luin will join us, and we will prevail!”

Gimli frowned; this was the first he had heard of an army from the Ered Luin. Would they enter through the west gate and catch up with Thorin’s company? If they did, the elf would be trapped between the two groups like metal between a hammer and anvil. 

They began their final ascent toward the main hall, traveling up a stair with wide, shallow steps. It had survived the years with only minor damage to its structure, but occasional notches in the stone required a keen eye. Gimli hoped Legolas could stay near enough to see without sacrificing his safety.

“There are orcs nearby.” Thorin’s sword rang as he half-drew it, blade glowing blue-white in the gloom. “Make ready to fight.”

Gimli clutched his axe, glad to see a brighter glow gathering as they climbed: the great hall had ventilation shafts driven to the surface through many ells of stone, angled and mirrored to bring sunlight within the mountain, and it seemed they had arrived by day. Such was a blessing for the elf, at least; should the torches be extinguished in the fighting, he would be able to see to defend himself. 

They arrived in the hall and crept cautiously around its edge. They could hear goblin voices now, grumbling and yammering within an antechamber off the great Hall, and a greater rumble with them: ogres, perhaps, or a troll.

“They are in the Chamber of Mazarbul,” Thorin murmured, and drew his sword. “We will take the room and hold it as our headquarters. There is a well within, and we can remain here until our allies join us, even if they are late in coming.”

Gimli spied a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye-- the elf, ducking behind a pillar. He had his bow in his hands, ready to do battle. 

Gimli sighed and firmed his hands on the haft of his axe. Helpless to do otherwise, he followed Thorin forward. 

The king strode boldly to the wooden door and kicked it open, splintering the rotting wood asunder. “ _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!_ ” 

An instant of startled silence greeted him, then chaos broke loose, every creature bellowing at once as they drew arms and charged. 

Thorin used the constraint of the door against them, meeting them with his sword and refusing to be budged. The other dwarves could only hew at spears and pole-arms that tried to find their way past the king. Short black orc-arrows began to sing, whistling around Gimli’s ears-- and were answered by the long, pale darts of elf arrows as Legolas darted out from behind the pillar and returned fire. 

Gimli groaned a curse and waded in, swiping at a goblin that had squeezed past Thorin. It fell, wounded by half a dozen axes. A few dwarves had drawn their bows and sent arrows singing past the king to strike orcs within the room, and screams erupted as their foes, ill-prepared and badly armed, discovered the error of their complacent arrogance.

A heavy-fisted strike staggered Thorin backward, and Gimli spotted a cave-troll within, swinging a heavy club. A collar and chain hung from its neck, its misshapen head and uneven eyes blocking out the light as it leaned forward. A dozen orcs used the moment to press forward, and Gimli found himself axe to sword with a large uruk, glaring at him through glittering red eyes and baring sharpened teeth. 

The cave-troll’s club struck the wall, crumbling a section of the lintel and frame; orcs poured through and the dwarves engaged them, fighting fiercely. Bright elf-arrows found their marks one after the other, as yet unnoticed, but that could not last for long. 

Gimli roared, ripping out the orc’s throat with a vicious thrust of his axe. He pressed forward through the gap left by its collapse and found himself inside the chamber, behind the press of the foe. He turned to hew at unprotected backs and was swiftly beset on every side, green-scaled ogres converging upon him with swords and heavy mattocks.

“ _Gurth an Glamhoth!_ ” A piercing battle cry echoed in the air, startling all. Flashing green and gold in the glow of light from the shaft, Legolas somersaulted over the press of battle, barely clearing the low arch of the shattered wall, and lit at Gimli’s side, knives scything through the air with savage grace. He drove one straight through the outstretched shield of an ogre, ripping it away, and slashed the thing’s hand off above the wrist, then whipped around, flinging the shield off his knife as he whirled to kick another, shattering its jaw and sending flecks of bone, teeth, and blood scattering across the floor. 

Glóin appeared on Gimli’s left, his axe flashing, glittering with black orc-blood. He hewed an ogre’s leg off at the knee, toppling it. Dark ichor stained his beard and clothes, but his eyes gleamed. 

“Back to back,” Gimli shouted, and they formed up, a rough triangle of deadly steel that forced the ogres to retreat. They hung back farthest from the elf, fearing his longer reach, and Gimli used that leverage to force through the line, once again maneuvering them behind their foes. He caught a glimpse of Thorin, hanging back behind the others, lifting his hand toward the ceiling. His eyes closed and his lips moved, but Gimli could not hear what he spoke.

Legolas snatched arrows from a goblin’s quiver and began to shoot once more, catching the cave troll in its neck, seeking its vulnerable spine. Darting forward, he leaped up the thing’s arm and drove a knife at its head, seeking to find its brain through its ear. It roared and spun, flinging him away; he rolled and came up with bow in hand once more, shooting toward its face, but the arrows barely stung it. 

Gimli darted in, heaving a mighty blow at the troll’s knee, rolling between its knees and coming up behind it amidst a knot of goblins. He spun his axe, catching their ankles and calves, making them shriek and stumble away. He had lost his momentum, but he surged to his feet when the way was clear, axe still spinning in his hands, and battered away the blades that sought him, charging forward and bowling two over with the sheer force of his strength. 

The troll roared-- Legolas was on it again, standing atop its head and firing directly down between his feet before jumping away to land lightly at Gimli’s side. They had lost Glóin in the melee, but Gimli could hear him shouting in battle-joy, fighting undeterred among his kin. 

The troll rounded on them, snarling, and stalked forward, ignoring all else in its rage and lust to destroy the gadfly elf. Gimli swallowed hard, throwing out an arm, backing them both away. Legolas continued firing, catching one of the thing’s eyes; it reached to rip the arrow away, blood streaming down its face. 

Gimli felt a stone rail behind his knees, stopping his retreat. The troll swung its club and Gimli rolled-- he to the left, Legolas darting to the right as the club descended with all the troll’s strength behind it. Gimli brought his axe down with all his might, cleaving the club in two, but the damage was done. The troll’s club had caught the well with a direct blow, crumbling the stone around its deep shaft. With a groan and rending crackle, the floor of the chamber spiderwebbed with cracks beneath Gimli’s feet. 

Ever swift and light on his feet, Legolas flipped again-- but toward Gimli, not away from the destruction. His hands caught at Gimli’s as the stone gave way with a roar, but he did not have the leverage he needed to leap and bear Gimli away, and he would not let go. 

They fell from the sunlit chamber into darkness, surrounded by chunks of shattered masonry, bouncing along the walls of the shaft as they tumbled downward together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gurth an Glamhoth!_ : Sindarin. Death to the yelling horde! (orcs)  
>  _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!_ : Khuzdul. Axes of the dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just saw another author in a different fandom blackmailing her readers by threatening not to post any more till she had 600 hits. It made me so mad I'm posting early. Seriously, screw that kind of passive-aggressive BS, and ENJOY!
> 
> Legolas and Gimli recover from their fall and journey cautiously through Moria together.

Legolas and Gimli fell perhaps thirty ells, splashing into water amidst a tumble of stone-- then the floor of the subterranean cavern gave way again, a sliding rumble of mud and rock, moving sideways and down after the manner of an avalanche. The water drained away, carrying them with it as helpless flotsam on the torrent. Gimli nearly lost the elf’s hands; he cried out and was half-choked with mud and water as the floor roared downward through a seam, dragging them far from the cave-in and well-shaft.

When the waters finally subsided, Gimli found himself pinned beneath a rubble of stone and muck. He shook his head to clear it, choking against the water he had swallowed. He felt something heavy and warm against his face, half-atop him: soft leather, wet. The elf. 

“Legolas?’ He scratched at the chunks of shattered rock, unsure how far they had descended. There was no light, no sound other than the rending and groaning of the walls as the cavern decided whether it would collapse further or hold. He could see well enough, but Legolas could not. 

“Gimli.” Legolas sounded dazed, but he stirred, shifting aside chunks of masonry and rock, lifting his arm off Gimli’s face. 

“I can’t get up,” Gimli whispered, keenly aware of the need for quiet. “Can you?”

“I think so. Yes.” Quiet shifting, clinking and scraping of stone ensued, and Legolas’s weight left him. “Are you hurt?”

“Bruises only. My leg is trapped beneath a stone, but I do not think it is broken.” Gimli had no idea how he looked, but for once the elf was not pristine. His once-tidy hair was mussed and mud had smeared all over him. Great hanks of wet hair had unraveled from his braid to hang loose around his face. He gazed blankly about himself. From his expression Gimli knew Legolas could not see much, if anything at all-- the elf’s eyes needed light to work, though Gimli could see well enough without it.

The elf groped along Gimli’s body until he found the edge of the stone slab. He explored it carefully with his hands, moving away smaller chunks of debris until he bared as much as he could. “I think I can move this. Can you pull away?”

“Yes. Don’t lift too far-- it might cause another cave-in, or the noise could bring orcs.”

He watched the elf set his shoulder under the thick slab and strain, cords standing out in his neck, but the rock eventually stirred enough for Gimli to pull away, tearing his breeches as he freed himself. Then Legolas let the rock down and Gimli helped him lower it so it came to rest with only a slight noise as it ground its way past gravel and sand onto the rubble-covered floor.

“That is better,” Gimli said, feeling his leg-- it pained him, but it seemed sound. “But you are hurt, I think.” Blood shone amidst the elf’s hair, bright-hot. 

“It is only a scratch.” 

“I will clean it and bandage it.” Gimli glanced around-- cooling corpses of a few orcs lay scattered amidst the debris, but none moved. “Then we must try to find ourselves and leave this place.”

Legolas nodded, glancing around the rubble, eyes wide as he struggled to see. “There is no light here.”

“I see no foes,” Gimli reassured him. “At least, none living.” The still, silent goblin bodies were fading already, and before long they would match the cold gray of the rock. He reached to his belt, where his water-bottle hung, still more than half-full. He reached and tore the hanging flap from his breeches, then set it over the neck of the bottle and dampened it.

“Come here and sit still,” he told the elf, gruff, and examined the wound when his friend obeyed.

Legolas was right-- the cut was not deep or long, but it had bled, staining his hair. Gimli cleansed it, then dabbed carefully at the stain, washing away as much as he could. 

Legolas sat still-- as still as he had when Gimli put the mithril cuff in his ear, submitting himself to Gimli’s handling. His hair was badly in need of tending; the leather strip had fallen away and all the braid was unraveling. He would be unable to use his bow without his hair tangling in the string. But he had spent all his arrows and there were none here to scavenge, so the weapon was useless for now.

Without thinking, Gimli reached and shook out the braided strands, then combed through them tenderly with his fingers.

He slowly became aware the elf had ceased to breathe beneath his hand, the reassuring whisper of air stopped as Legolas waited, his head tilted to let Gimli reach. 

Gimli too hung fire, frozen for a moment by his own daring-- but his hands did not heed him and moved, threading into the soft strands again. Gimli caressed them, trembling, remembering how he had told the elf that by custom, dwarves did such things only between lovers.

“We have no bandages,” Legolas whispered, his voice a ghost of its confident self. Gimli watched Legolas’s tongue flick out to wet his lips, watched the elf lean toward him... his eyes closing and his lips parting, as if he _yearned_. Gimli felt as if he stood atop a barren hillside with his axe upraised while thunder built in the heavens overhead: a building static charge crackling through him with wild threat and promise. 

His hand refused to withdraw, so Gimli forced himself to curve his trembling palm around the elf’s head, feeling the shape of it as though seeking further injury-- but in truth, he was lost to sensation, savoring the glide of that beautiful hair between his fingers, handling it freely at long last. 

The elf breathed anew-- fast, harsh, chest rising and falling swiftly. His eyes did not open. Something gathered within Gimli in response to that low sound of breath, and the crackling tension that filled him blazed fierce with fire. He could not stop. He could not.

No time for this, no time-- but the elf was alive and with him, when they both might easily have died in battle, or been crushed by falling stone. Both his hands had sunk into the elf’s hair, and he could not keep them from it. His fingertips brushed Legolas’s ear, tracing the delicate mithril wires of his own crafting.

Legolas’s eyes opened, lashes fluttering as the elf tilted his head toward Gimli, yielding. His face, so strong and handsome, so recently hardened with determination and readiness for battle, slowly changed, opening, his wide, sightless eyes making him look impossibly young and lost. Gimli saw him shiver, saw his eyes close and his chin lift-- and Gimli suddenly understood Legolas did not know how clearly he was seen. He believed himself hidden in blackness as he delivered himself up willingly to Gimli’s touch: vulnerable, seeking, needing. 

They were very close now, shared breath warm between them, so overwhelmed from the adrenaline of the fight and the fall and fear that everything seemed magnified-- each gesture stretching slow and liquid like golden honey. “Legolas,” Gimli heard the name escape him on a breath, and the elf lifted himself toward the sound, his trembling fingers finding the fall of Gimli’s beard, sliding briefly along its length. A touch reserved for lovers indeed-- yet the elf’s fingers sank deep to cradle his jaw.

It was more than Gimli could bear.

He closed the distance and kissed the beautiful mouth that lifted toward him, seeking him like a seedling might turn toward the sun. 

Legolas uttered the softest sound, half-gasp and half-moan. He responded clumsily, opening with a hesitant lack of skill compensated by pure sweetness as his lips melted, hot and clinging, to receive Gimli’s kiss. For a long, wondrous moment Gimli indulged himself-- one long slow sweep of his tongue through the elf’s velvet warmth, a few gentle nibbles and tugs at his intoxicating lips before he withdrew, forcing himself to breathe. Legolas made no move to escape, tipping his forehead to rest against Gimli's. He, too, breathed swiftly.

“We have to move, _amrâlimê_ ,” Gimli whispered after a moment, his voice near breaking. "Orcs may come to investigate the noise." He hesitated long enough to tear strips from the hem of his tunic to tie back Legolas’s hair and bind the elf’s head. He helped Legolas rise and held him until he steadied. “Put your hands on my shoulders so I may guide you.” His voice was husky, rough and hoarse with tenderness. 

The elf obeyed, and Gimli led him forth, moving slowly, trying to get his bearings. He had never been in this place, but he had lived many long years underground, and he could see well. Where the chambers were so broad or so constrained that he could not see what he needed, the echoes brought shapes and knowledge to his ears: height of ceilings, slope of passages. His nostrils could read the movement of the airs and sense passages out and up or in and down. The very bones of him told him north from south, leading him forward in the gloom. “We will find worked tunnels again, and when we do, I will read the marks carved at the cornerings. I will find our way out,” Gimli promised. 

“Gandalf and the others will follow us inside the mine, I think.” Legolas murmured. “We may find them wandering in the dark.” 

Gimli grunted. “It is a merry chase Thorin leads us on, yet even for my father’s sake, I cannot hope his plan will work.”

“I do not understand your father’s role in this,” Legolas confessed. “I am angry with him and the others for their treatment of you.”

Gimli understood; he felt none too pleased himself. “I think he meant to part me from you by force, hoping I would return to my old views once the influence of what he thinks must be elf-magic departed and my mind could clear,” Gimli said, grim. “He desired to restore me to the king’s good graces, and wished me to have a share in the riches he hopes to earn here.”

Gimli drew a deep breath, shame heavy on his heart. “Legolas… you were right in Dale. Thorin means to lure Durin’s Bane from here and loose it upon the folk of the Golden Wood, that they will bear its attack and end the threat for him, just as the men of Laketown dispatched Smaug, leaving Erebor unscathed.”

Legolas drew a sharp breath. “Never before has speaking truth given me such grief,” he whispered. “Gimli, I am sorry.”

“It is not you who injures me.” Gimli chose a turning and led the elf eastward. “It is Thorin Oakenshield who leads my kin to ruin in his pride and cruelty, out of lust for mithril and gold.” He lifted his head to sniff the air, and chose a new passage. “We will make for the east gate and go to warn the lady.” 

He thought by the scent of coal and metal that they must be near the forges, and some time later they found a narrow, worked corridor with piles of slag swept to the edges, proving him right. “We must go with care,” Gimli muttered. “Lest we run afoul of blackdamp. Tell me if you feel dizzy or fatigued.” In truth, it was likely he would fall victim first, for the stuff was heavier than air and he would breathe it sooner, should they encounter it. “If I should falter, do not hesitate, but drag me away in the direction we came.”

“Blackdamp? What is that?” Legolas sounded alarmed.

“It is a fume that breathes from coal, and we draw near the forges, where much coal was kept. I do not know if elves can inhale it safely, but dwarves cannot. Many visitors to the mines have stopped in surprise to find dwarves keep sparrows in cages-- their chirping tells if the air is good. Should they fall silent, there is bad air.” 

“We have no birds with us,” Legolas murmured, forlorn.

“No, but there is air moving through these passages, and that is a good sign. Blackdamp collects near coal when the air is still.” He led Legolas forward, and soon they joined a long series of interconnected halls. Tall smelting forges stood abandoned, cold shadows in the gloom. Gimli could not resist the temptation to turn aside and examine one: it lay empty, its gate opened for a pour, but below stood only the empty slots of cooling molds. “The orcs have taken all they can plunder,” he said sadly. “There is no mithril left here.”

“Let us go,” Legolas tugged at him. “This place is drowned in a shadow of fear. I sense evil near us. Please, Gimli!”

Gimli let himself be drawn away, setting one hand over Legolas’s. “I am coming. Do not fear my greed.” He felt ashamed of himself that he had been drawn aside for even a moment, and he led Legolas forward at a slow trot for some minutes, then frowned as they drew near the end of the halls. 

“This is odd.” He scowled at the air, at the walls. “There is fire above us; the walls bleed heat, and the air is hot and dry.”

Legolas shivered, stepping close to Gimli’s back. “Must we walk through fire to escape?”

“No. We will turn back, if we must. But I do not see why the halls are alight. Other than the coal for the smelters and forges, there should be nothing to burn.”

Gimli slowed their progress, moving forward with care. As the heat waked the darkness to stirring life before his eyes, he could see more, and indeed, they were nearing the coal-stores, for a row of hanging carts led straight ahead, vanishing into a hall where the glow was strongest. 

“Yes, that is the coal store. Or what is left of it,” Gimli muttered. Air, white-hot in his vision, flowed through the top of the hall, the source of the warmth that flushed this end of the smelting chambers. “Something has set it alight.” 

“There is a red light in the stones and the air is foul,” Legolas murmured, and Gimli realized he was right. He felt slightly dizzy, his head beginning to float. Ahead, fire devoured all that was fit to breathe, and poured forth a poisonous fume, the thin smoke of which which already curled in his lungs, making him want to cough.

“We will turn aside, then,” he said, and led Legolas away southward, hoping for another door. He found it, but then it turned west, a long straight corridor with no leftward branches. “This must parallel the southern rift,” he muttered. “We are lucky we did not wash there when we fell, or we might be falling yet.”

“Is there no bridge to cross?”

Gimli remembered his few glimpses of Thorin’s map, but only dimly. “Not on this level. Not for many furlongs.” He scowled. “Poor planning on the miners’ part! There should be another way across, for safety’s sake. But we will return to the smelting chambers and work our way up, and then I hope to find another way.”

They did, and Gimli found a stair, leading them several levels from the smelting chambers, up to the weapon-forge. “Here iron was worked,” he explained. “Can you smell it?”

“I smell many things, none pleasant!” Legolas muttered behind him, and Gimli laughed. 

They did better this time, following a passage that led east. Gimli scowled at the floor, which was hot with the residue of fires below. “Orc-mischief, that fire,” he muttered. “It is lucky we have found a way past it.”

“I wonder,” Legolas whispered, his tone hushed. “Is it come of orcs, or something worse?”

“Let us not borrow trouble.” Gimli felt at the cornerstone. “Here is a direction,” he brightened. “We may pass onward to the third hall from this corridor, and from there it is a short way to the east gate!”

Legolas made no answer, but his hands tightened, and Gimli stilled. “What is it?”

“I hear goblins. I cannot tell where.” He could see the elf staring sightlessly about, as if to find the source of the sound with his eyes.

“Your ears are keener than mine. Hsst,” Gimli silenced him. At length he too could hear it, and knew the sounds came from the east. “Backtrack,” he whispered, and they fled, taking refuge in a guardroom behind a pile of refuse. 

Soon torchlight flared, dancing and red, sending shadows reeling as lines of goblins and ogres filed past their hiding place, bristling with arms and snarling to one another in their foul black speech.

“They will attack Thorin’s company,” Legolas breathed in Gimli’s ear, and Gimli nodded, catching his hand. The elf was easier to see by torchlight; his fair face smeared with mud, his hair hanging in limp, filthy strings from its hastily-tied ponytail, his eyes worn with fatigue, or perhaps worry, for the first time in Gimli’s memory.

Even soiled, he was the most beautiful thing Gimli had ever seen. Gimli swallowed hard and kept himself in check with an effort, turning his gaze away. The last of the troops passed and the light of their torches faded, then the rumor of their passage. He counted to two hundred after that, then arose and they slipped forth. They could see red light of fire flaring from the blazing coal chambers far below as they crossed into the third hall and took the narrow span of Durin’s Bridge at a run, Legolas sure of foot at Gimli’s heels. 

There were goblin guards in the first hall, but they were lazing at their posts, half-asleep. They offered little resistance, falling swiftly to axe and knife. Then Legolas and Gimli were out, the cloud-shrouded day unbearably bright to their eyes at first as they fled down the treeless stone into Dimrill Dale.

“Lothlórien,” Legolas pointed to the Golden Wood, a haze of shining color on the horizon. “We can make the eaves of the wood before nightfall.”

Gimli nodded and ran in his wake, glad to see the elf at ease again, his eyes bright, free to run as he wished under the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _amrâlimê_ : My love


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli meet Haldir once more.

They crossed the Silverlode many times, running together through its cold, clear water, and did not slow until they found themselves amid trees and a second stream joined the first, falling over the lip of a tall cliff, its water singing as if in joy at finding the fringe of the Golden Wood.

“It is the Nimrodel,” Legolas told him. “And I would stop a while here to bathe, for I am covered with filth.” Without apparent thought of modesty, he shed his tunic and breeches and went to stand beneath the torrent, leaving Gimli to look away in haste, blushing to the roots of his hair. 

He had seen Legolas unclad before, yet then it had seemed a thing of little import, and the elf’s beauty had not struck him so near the heart then as it did now. Legolas had seemed remote and cool, like a statue of unattainable perfection. He was to be admired, certainly, but at the time Gimli had not thought of him as warm, living flesh that might be touched or taken as a lover. ….Not the flesh of one whom he had kissed and might one day hope to possess. He lifted his hand to his braid and fingered the bead that hung there. Should he change his braiding now? He did not quite know.

“You are filthy also,” Legolas commented with amusement as he tipped his head forward, the falls cascading over his shoulders, plastering his hair to his chest. 

Gimli went to him slowly, shedding clothing piece by piece. He marked that the elf’s eyes did not follow him now as they once had, and frowned to himself a bit over it, puzzled. Legolas seemed to have satisfied his curiosity about Gimli’s form, and was merely content to turn and preen in the water, rinsing his hair. Gimli would have thought him a coquette but for his obvious pleasure in the cool flow of the Nimrodel. The elf sang as he bathed, a soft and melancholy tune that mingled with the whispering song of the falling water.

Gimli finished his rinse quickly, feeling the chill, then went to dress himself, brushing dried mud out of his clothing as best he could before climbing into the stiff clothes. 

Legolas joined him, dripping wet, his perfection restored, and Gimli chuckled to himself as the elf wandered along the stream, inspecting the young trees, seeming content to go unclad until he dried. 

“Are you sure no eyes watch you?” Gimli shook his head with wonder. 

“There are none but elves here to see, if any are nearby.” Legolas said. “Elves and you. But we have bathed together before, have we not?” He wrung out his hair and swung it over his shoulder, spattering droplets over Gimli, who protested with a laugh, pushing him away. 

If the elf did truly not mind… Gimli let himself lift his gaze and filled his eyes with beauty, his breath catching in his chest. Sunlight silvered the sheen of water lingering on Legolas’s skin, and the cool of bathing had brought a pink flush to his skin all over. His muscles shifted and flowed with glorious, simple perfection, his body so sleek and agile he made Gimli’s throat go dry. He seemed not to mind his bare feet, walking confidently among the grasses. Nor did he mind Gimli’s eyes, smiling on him with confidence, then looking ahead to the clearing where they had paused. “We will find guards soon,” he guessed. “And they will send word of our news to the lady.”

“Aye.” Gimli sighed; he had been on the verge of forgetting their troubles, so charmed was he by the elf’s beauty. 

Legolas perched on a boulder, spreading his thighs and basking in the sun; Gimli sat across from him and watched as he closed his eyes and turned his face upward, lying back against the warm dark stone. The water was drying fast, leaving him velvet and soft; tendrils of his hair lifted on the breeze. Gimli had to clench his fists, considering the temptation to touch the elf-- to reach across the narrow gap that separated them and simply slide his palm up one inviting thigh, thumb tracing the tender inner flesh, until he reached Legolas’s cock and wrapped his hand around it. 

Before he could nerve himself to try, Legolas sat up, sighing, and reached for his breeches, vanishing into them with disappointing speed and putting his feet into his low boots. He shouldered into his tunic, clasping his belt.

“Will you braid my hair?” Legolas knelt down at his feet, offering his head.

Gimli nodded, his mouth dry, and made himself move swiftly, nimbly constructing the same sort of braid Legolas had first made to consider him so many weeks ago, then tying it off. Legolas looked back at him with a small smile, his cheeks flushed, and rose. 

“Let us find the wardens of the march and deliver our message without more delay.” 

They trotted onward into the wood, Legolas gazing about as if seeking birds in the treetops. He stopped of a sudden, so swiftly Gimli nearly collided with him, and called aloft. 

Gimli blinked up and suddenly found elves descending; they had been so still he mistook them for branches, but there were three.

“Haldir!” Legolas called, suddenly joyful.

“ _Mae govannen, Thranduilion_!” Haldir leaped lightly to the ground and embraced Legolas, smiling. “From whence have you come so unexpectedly? Surely not from the Dimrill Dale!”

“You guess at once. We bear ill-tidings.” Legolas glanced at the other two elves with sudden concern.

“These are my brothers, Rúmil and Orophin.” Haldir nodded to each. “They are trusty, but they do not speak the Westron tongue.”

“Thorin Oakenshield has opened Moria and summoned armies of his kin to rout the shadows that dwell there,” Legolas began.

“He means to waken Durin’s Bane and send it forth upon Lothlorien.” Gimli cut to the heart of the matter, gruff. “He has at least one of the dwarven rings. I think he believes he can bend the beast to his will.”

“It is a balrog of Morgoth, I think,” Legolas agreed, somber. “The wizard guessed so, and I could sense it lurking in the depths, Haldir. It is awake, and it will come. Mithrandir and our company are also within Moria, if they could pass the west gate. The wizard means to oppose Thorin’s will.” 

Haldir’s gaze snapped between them, keen and troubled. “I will send signals to the lady at once. Orophin!” He spoke, a torrent of liquid Elvish, and Orophin vanished, only his heels to be seen as he flung himself aloft. “The Galadhrim have been mustering for war since the lady’s departure,” he said, “Though not many days have passed since her return from Rivendell, these tidings do not find us unprepared. But it is grim word you bring, to have such a terrible foe so close at hand! We had thought to march upon Dol Guldur, not fight an invasion of our own land.”

“I am sorry. But at least you have warning.”

“Yes.” Haldir sighed. “Let us come deeper into the wood. There is a place where we may take shelter and await word from the lady. I think she will march at once. Then we will join her company and return to the black pit to lend aid to the wizard, if I do not miss my guess.”

They walked for a time, the sun set behind the mountains in the west. When dusk drew near, Haldir halted them before a stand of trees with huge, thick gray trunks. “We have arrived at the first guardpost,” he said, and gave them waybread and wine, and they swallowed it together, standing at the base of one tall tree. Haldir took back the wine-skin when they finished. “There is a talan above. Rest yourselves there.” 

At Legolas’s nod, Gimli climbed the slender ladder, grimacing as it swayed against the tree, but soon found himself at the talan, and managed to haul himself onto it, clumsy but safe. The sun was gone now, leaving only a faint pink in the western sky, and he was weary, ready for rest. He watched Legolas climb through the hole in the talan, leaving the ladder easily to move about the perimeter of the small platform, gazing keenly into the dark forest beyond. There was a screen, set to block the wind, and he checked its fastening with care.

Gimli watched him, quiet, waiting for the elf to settle. The shifting of the ladder betrayed the presence of another climber; Haldir followed them. He raised himself swiftly to the platform and joined Legolas.

“We may be pursued,” Legolas said softly, every line of him taut with tension. 

“My troop is ready. We will do what must be done.”

“You are not prepared to fight what we lies in Moria.”

“Perhaps it will not come out before we are set to meet it. I will go and gather information; Orophin lingered behind us with his mirror to send signals. By now he should have news to impart.” Haldir set his hand on Legolas’s shoulder to comfort him, and Gimli felt his belly tighten with bitterness. He removed his pack and dug for his pipe. Shame held his tongue, and grief, and worry for his father-- and sudden shyness of Legolas, now that they were finally at a loose end together. He might almost wish the forest full of orcs that they might fight, and he could bury his fear in battle-lust, swinging his axe until he dropped.

“I will signal you if you are needed. Otherwise, you should stay concealed here tonight.” Haldir gave Gimli a long glance, as if debating what to say, then departed without speaking again.

Legolas came to Gimli’s side, settling to his knees. “It would be warmer if we lie next to the screen. I will put myself between you and the edge, if you like.” 

Gimli scowled a bit at the implication that he was afraid of falling. 

“We should rest while we may. We may have to rouse and fight.” 

Gimli dropped his gaze and nodded. 

“Come,” Legolas said softly, and led him by the hand to the edge, where he unrolled his blanket and Gimli’s, spreading them to make a bed. Gimli’s heart stopped, then pounded double-time; the elf laid one blanket outspread for them both and layered the other over it as a cover. 

He turned to remove his helm and set his axe within easy reach, listening to the soft rustling as the elf settled himself by the screen, on the outer edge as promised. 

He was keenly conscious of all the eyes in the forest; Haldir was no doubt lingering nearby, standing watch; he would see. His brothers and their troop would see. ….Legolas would see how he trembled as he turned to take his place at the elf’s side, as he took the corner of the blanket that was lifted for him, as he slipped beneath. 

Legolas sighed and settled, but his arm did not retreat. It lay casually across Gimli’s waist, and though it was not heavy, Gimli felt its slight weight as strongly as if it were made of gold. 

“Your arm?” Legolas’s voice was soft, very close by, and Gimli realized the elf was trying to curl against him. Carefully he moved to rest it around his friend, and Legolas nestled comfortably against his side with a sigh. Gimli found himself with a shoulder to stroke and a tall, warm elf pressed against him, smiling his contentment.

He had lain close with Legolas for comfort in Rivendell when the two of them believed themselves lost, divorced forever from their kin. It was even worse for Gimli now: he pictured his father beset by ogres and trolls, falling in the chamber of Mazarbul, his body plundered. He did not even know if his father might yet live, or if he had been taken by the shadow. 

Yet the elf comforted him-- and distressed him all at once. They had been close many times before, in the woods of Mirkwood first, when Legolas was wounded. But all of that was before Gimli had kissed him.

He could feel Legolas’s eyes on him as he lay, gazing up into the shifting canopy of the tree, seeing the pinpoints of glimmering stars beyond the moving leaves. 

“You kissed me in the Black Pit,” Legolas whispered. 

“Aye,” Gimli admitted, gruff. He would not argue the name, not now. Perhaps never again.

“Would you kiss me also in Lothlórien?”

“I would,” Gimli breathed, turning his head to find Legolas waiting, his eyes closed and his lips softly parted.

He took them gently, grazing the lower one with his teeth, then suckling it slowly inside his mouth. Legolas lay still but kissed him back, mouth moving with hesitant care-- awkward, strange; Gimli suddenly realized the elf was trying to copy what he did at the same time he did it. Legolas was nothing like the callous, lustful sprite he recalled from the wraith’s vision.

“Have you never done this?” Gimli murmured against his lips.

“Only with you.” Legolas’s cheeks flushed. “Did I do it wrongly?” 

“Let me lead.” Gimli stroked his thumb over Legolas’s mouth, searching the elf’s eyes for untruth-- how could it be so, when he had lived so long? He kissed Legolas again, soft and shallow. The elf was strange; he did not move to press and arch his body against Gimli, as the dwarf’s agemates had often done when they lay together, showing their eagerness with restless motion. He simply lay quietly, content to be kissed, and let Gimli explore his mouth, remaining passive and willing until Gimli withdrew.

Slowly Legolas followed him back, taking tentative control of the kiss, and Gimli showed him how such tender aggressions might be rightly met: opening to accept his tongue, swirling his own around its tip, moaning low in his throat and returning the soft pressure when Legolas carefully suckled and nibbled at his lips. His whole body burned, urgent with need, but he restrained himself, keeping his hips well back. He didn’t want to rush the moment, stunned and touched by the innate sweetness of the elf’s kisses and by the simple innocence with which Legolas offered them. 

The kisses lingered, a low and tender flame Gimli tended with exquisite care as Legolas slowly gained confidence, their tongues weaving gently back and forth between their mouths. Finally Gimli had to pull back to catch his breath. He urgently longed to touch Legolas, to explore the elf’s long, hard-muscled body with his hands, but he didn’t quite dare; Legolas’s chaste responses so far did not make it seem he was ready for such a bold intimacy. 

Legolas gazed at him with wide, wondering eyes, and the tip of his tongue touched his lip, pink and soft and questioning. He drew a slow breath, his eyes closing, then tilted his head toward Gimli, offering his ear.

Gimli nuzzled forward, brushing his nose delicately against the lobe, then lifting his mouth to kiss it.

A shudder ran hard through the elf’s body as he kindled all at once; breath escaped him in a low rush. Gimli grazed the tender flesh with his teeth and Legolas whimpered, his lips parting on a gasp. Taking the mithril wires firmly between his teeth made the elf arch wildly, his back leaving the floor; Legolas made a frantic sound deep in his throat.

“That’s the reward of a piercing,” Gimli rumbled in his ear, and did it again. Legolas keened, fingers scrabbling in the blankets, as Gimli licked between the wires, tugging them with his teeth. 

“Gimli!” He had never heard Legolas make such a sound, breathless and desperate with desire. His tongue flickered out to wet his lips. “I _burn!_ ”

Gimli drew back, alarmed. “I will stop.”

Legolas swallowed hard, his face twisted as if in pain. His body, once so still, now arched itself to press against Gimli, and he felt the length of the elf’s desire push against him. “Please do not,” he pleaded, low and broken. “I need….” His hips lifted against Gimli, and Legolas made a choked sound, burrowing against his throat. 

Gimli reached to lay his hand over the long, straining ridge inside the elf’s breeches, and Legolas wailed, muffling his cry against Gimli’s skin. 

“You,” Gimli whispered, hardly knowing he spoke. “The wraith offered you to me.”

Legolas moaned and sought Gimli’s lips. “And you to me.” There was nothing shy or innocent about his kisses now; they claimed Gimli’s mouth with urgent need. “But its evil has no part in this,” he gasped between hungry kisses. “The lady assured me so….”

Gimli laughed, startled but pleased, and sank his fingers into the elf’s hair, running his thumbs along Legolas’s ears and making him whimper. 

A sound intruded--a throat clearing, calm and deliberate. Gimli looked up into the face of Haldir, who hung from the ladder on the trunk of the tree, one elegant brow arched in silent commentary upon the scene he found unfolding before him. “There are urgent tidings,” he said, his tone dry. “Come aloft and you will see.”

Gimli sighed a curse, his palm sliding over Legolas’s strong back. “We are summoned, Legolas.” He smoothed a strand of hair back from the elf’s fevered brow. 

Legolas composed himself with an effort, pushing back his hair and combing it to some semblance of order with his fingers.

“Then we must go,” he said at last. “But I would return swiftly and continue what we have begun.” High color burned in his cheeks. 

“Aye,” Gimli tugged him in for a lingering taste of his mouth. “As soon as we may.” He smiled, joy singing through him despite the interruption. Now he might change his braid and give to Legolas the other bead he had made-- beyond hope of hope, he might mark himself claimed, chosen by his _amrâlimê_!

“Orcs have come to the borders,” Haldir said as they climbed to follow him. “Though not yet in numbers. They prepare lines of battle, and we expect more to arrive throughout the night. But there is smoke in the air, coming from the east gate, and there are flickers of fire from the mountaintop. Come up and see,” he invited, and continued up the trunk. 

Legolas followed swiftly, and Gimli rather slower, clinging to the ladder as the broad trunk grew slender and swayed even more under his weight.

Legolas helped him onto the final platform, and they stood there, looking out across the whispering treetops toward the west. The mountains were crowned with clouds, but lightning flared into them, wild pulses of orange and red.

Gimli swallowed hard. He did not like this place-- there was no rail, no central trunk to cling to-- only the small talan, barely large enough for three, and clusters of leaves. He liked the lightnings even less. “Zirakzigil,” Gimli whispered. “Durin’s Bane stands atop the Endless Stair.”

“It has overpowered our company, I fear.” Legolas bent his head in despair. “We should have been with them.”

“You know as well as I: we could not go back; we had to warn the lady. And we would likely have missed them, if we tried.”

“Signals have been received from Caras Galadhon. The Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim march forth, and will be here before first light. We will fight.” Haldir led the way back down to the larger platform, Gimli following with Legolas’s help, then Legolas behind him. Haldir stepped off the ladder to wait for them, holding it steady for Gimli, but he did not offer the dwarf his hand. Instead he waited for Legolas, and when he was down, Haldir spoke, a calm torrent of liquid Elvish that made Legolas’s spine stiffen. 

Gimli’s eyes narrowed, watching them both as Legolas lifted his shoulders and straightened himself, answering Haldir with flashing eyes, clearly annoyed-- and defiant.

Gimli might have laughed-- a bitter triumph, at best, to see the march warden’s jealousy. Gimli’s palms itched, wishing for his axe-- to lean on, to give his hands something to do, not to strike Haldir. Certainly not, no matter how much Gimli’s shoulders tightened with longing at the notion. 

The exchange above his head was less fluid now, growing hotter as he listened. Gimli cleared his throat, annoyed, feeling his own temper smolder as they ignored him. “What business is it of yours, warden of the march?” He growled, stepping forward to rest his hand at the small of Legolas’s back, bristling with wrath. “The Prince of the Greenwood has no need to fear your disapproval. Nor do I.”

“You will perhaps feel less daring when Thranduil learns his crown prince plans to sire no heir.” Haldir lifted his chin. “But you are right. It is none of my affair.” He swept his hand to his waist and bowed, eyes never leaving Gimli’s face-- no sign of true yielding in him, for all his courtesy. 

“I have brought arrows, Legolas, and other weapons for use when they are spent.” He began to descend. “Come and arm yourselves.”

Gimli sighed. There would be no sweet continuation of the moment the march warden had interrupted. 

“Let us go down and take arms.” He gave Legolas a wry smile. “But when battle is done, elf…!”

Legolas’s eyes sparkled, and his lips parted in soft laughter. “Count on it.”

Haldir and his brothers had gone to his defensive cache and brought out many sheafs of arrows and a large number of swords of different weights and lengths. Legolas sorted through them with care, settling on two short, narrow swords with a slight, wicked curve-- much like his knives, but longer and sturdier, better suited to prolonged and close battle. He took as many arrows as he could comfortably carry, also, enough to fill his quiver and more sheaves to tie at his belt. 

Gimli harrumphed as he looked on the armaments. There was nothing heavy enough for his taste even if he liked to swing a sword, which he did not. He reached and took a short knife, though, and tucked it in his boot. The elvish steel was light and should be strong.

“Orophin will take you to find a harness for those,” Haldir told Legolas, and watched as they departed. Gimli steeled himself, folding his arms and bracing his feet as the march-warden turned to him.

Haldir tilted his head. “You once spoke wisdom to me when you told me the ways of your kin, and you did not flinch from truth to spare my feelings. Though I have no business here, I would do the same for you.” 

Gimli nodded slowly, feeling a muscle jump in his jaw. 

“Legolas is innocent of your lust, dwarf. When an elf gives his body to a lover, it is an act of marriage. He will be bound to that one alone in love and in desire forever.” He waited while Gimli considered, glancing aside to ensure Legolas had not yet returned, but he had not finished, and he stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “If that is not enough to dissuade you, know this also: when an elf’s lover dies, that elf will often choose to follow. That means he will be so lost in grief and pain he decides not to live. His spirit departs from his body, leaving it empty. That is why elves do not join with mortals.”

“You lie,” Gimli felt as if the march-warden had struck him in the gut with a club; all the air and joy went out of him in a sudden whoof, leaving him tottering on his legs. He would not believe it, if he had not seen Giledhel in such a state-- so grievously injured his spirit had willed itself to depart from his body.

“I do not lie.” Haldir held Gimli’s gaze, grave and unyielding. “If you love Thranduilion, you will not condemn him to such a fate.” 

Gimli opened his mouth, but no words came out for a long moment. “I did not know,” he finally uttered. 

“Now you do. I trust it is not too late.” Haldir swept past him as Legolas returned with Orophin, who helped him strap the new harness onto his back. Haldir set arrows in Legolas’s new quiver and Legolas smiled at him, then at Gimli, who could only stare at him without words, heartbroken. 

“What is wrong, _meleth_?” Legolas’s smile faltered, replaced with concern.

“I… I am worried for my father, and for our companions.” Gimli swallowed around the lump in his throat. It felt the size of a boulder-- heavy, craggy, and dry. _And for you._

Legolas’s eyes darted to Haldir, sharp with suspicion. “As am I,” he said. 

Gimli took a deep breath. “Our message is delivered, and my father’s life is in peril. I must go back to see if I can help him.” He settled his axes in his belt, squaring his jaw. “Legolas, matters have changed and I may not delay. I would have you wait here for the others.”

“I will not wait.” Legolas drew himself upright, his eyes flashing. “If you will go, so shall I.”

“You will be a burden there. You cannot even see in the dark.” 

Hurt flashed across Legolas’s face, but he did not waver, his jaw setting. “I made it through Moria once with these eyes, and I can do so again. You will not stop me following you!”

“You should have stayed with the wizard all along. This is dwarf business.”

“You will not persuade me to stay behind by hurting me, _meleth_.” Legolas lifted his chin, his face draining of all expression-- save his eyes, which shone too brightly. 

Gimli turned half-away, his words halted in his throat, his chest heavy with pain. “Then gather torches and follow as you may, if you will not do otherwise!” He turned away and stamped off toward the mountain, his heart in his throat. He could not evade Legolas; he could neither hide nor outrun him. But he would not linger another instant under Haldir’s cool, judging gaze. 

He had gone perhaps two furlongs when Legolas fell in at his side, his steps noiseless on the soft loam. He was indeed laden with torches, and with weapons, water, and food. 

“Haldir put you in this fell mood, I know. What did he say?” Legolas said, his voice stiff with wrath, but then it softened. “Can we not finish what we began before we march to our deaths?”

Gimli’s heart wept. “We must not,” he said, gruff. For it might well be they would die-- and yet the elf might survive Gimli, if he went untouched. 

Legolas looked ahead, his handsome face going hard. “Words passed between you and the march warden while I was gone, I think. Know this, my heart: you will tell me what Haldir said when our task is finished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Meleth:_ Beloved  
>  _Amrâlimê:_ My heart  
>  _Mae govannen, Thranduilion:_ Well met, son of Thranduil


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli argue over who will stay and who will go.

Legolas and Gimli retraced their steps in silence to the east gate, scrambling to avoid gathering camps of orcs as they climbed amidst the rocks and gullies of the Dimrill Dale, and drawing near the entry at dawn. A thin smoke trailed out of the open door; there was no sign of sentries. They made their way stealthily about the north border of the dale until they reached the verge of the gate, then armed themselves, remembering the guards from before. 

“There will likely be more watching the way now,” Gimli ran his thumb along the blade of his axe. “I will lead. You hang back and use your bow.”

Legolas nodded, grim; he had spoken little since they left Lothlórien. “This is a fool’s course,” he muttered, but he strung his bow and nocked an arrow.

“Call me a fool if you will, but I would have you turn back to Lórien and leave me to my foolishness.”

Legolas shook his head, his eyes shuttered. “No.” 

“I beg you,” Gimli said, his voice low and shaking. 

“Would your answer be different if I begged?” Legolas looked on him with pain.

Gimli closed his eyes with anguish and turned, lifting his axe. He stepped through the door.

There were sentries waiting, but they were easy-- small mountain goblins, badly armed and armored. Legolas’s arrows sang with vicious precision as Gimli’s axe whistled through the air, and soon none remained to challenge them. Wordless, Gimli helped Legolas reclaim his arrows, then they advanced into the dark of the hall, moving with rapid caution as they left the morning light behind.

“We should make for the place where we were parted from Thorin’s company,” Legolas said quietly. “I left marks for the wizard as I followed you.” 

Gimli made a soft, surprised grunt. “The Chamber of Mazarbul? That was wise. I can get us there, I think.” He led Legolas forward, the elf’s hands settling on his shoulders as the darkness closed around them. 

“Am I truly a burden, as you said?” Legolas said softly.

“No.” Gimli cursed himself for his cruelty. “But I would rather have you safe than here.”

Legolas’s lips ghosted against his ear in answer, making him shiver with longing, but he steeled himself to go on.

They avoided several bands of orcs and trolls, darting aside into alcoves or cracks in the hall and waiting as they passed, making steady progress toward the Chamber. The halls lay wrapped in a brooding darkness that made even Gimli twitch. The mines seemed too warm, the air too close, and he knew the great fires they had seen near the eastern end of the forges must be to blame. He disliked the sense of thunderous, watchful quiet; there should be many more orcs about, for the intruders had not gone undiscovered. Yet the only ones they passed were headed for the eastern gate. It had the feel of a trap, and he guessed he and the elf would not find their way out easily, even if they turned back at once. 

“Some evil will has awakened to combat those who intrude on its domain.” Legolas whispered, close behind him. 

Durin’s Bane, no doubt. Gimli thought on the flashes they had seen from Zirakzigil. “Aye.”

They drew near the chamber, perceiving a glow of light from the sun-shaft, and picked their way among the bodies of fallen orcs, ogres, and trolls. Gimli kept an eye out for his father, but there seemed to be no dwarf corpses amidst the fallen. 

“Voices,” Legolas murmured, suddenly glad, and hurried forward, moving lightly between the fallen bodies and shattered stones. 

They found the wizard by the light of his staff; he and the fellowship sat huddled against the wall of the great hall, taking rest and having food. 

“Well!” Gandalf stood quickly. “Here you are, at least! Little the worse for wear, it would seem.” His words were jovial, but Gimli thought his face looked tired and careworn. “What of Thorin and his company? We found no dwarves among the bodies among the remains of battle nearby, but a great deal of the chamber floor has collapsed, and we knew not who might have been lost when it fell.”

“The two of us fell with it, at least,” Gimli said, gruff, marking how intently Bilbo listened to his news. “Yet maybe that was our salvation, for we evaded Thorin’s folk and the shadowspawn to come out of Moria, then traveled down to the golden wood to enlist aid.”

“Galadriel’s folk march on Moria. They should arrive in a few hours,” Legolas confirmed.

Gandalf’s eyes went wide. “You have been busy indeed! I am glad to hear your news. You led us a merry chase. We would not have found this place so swiftly without your markings at the turns, Legolas. But they failed us here, and so we paused to debate our next move.” He frowned. “There is a great company of dwarves from the Blue Mountains not far behind us. We marked their progress toward the mountain before we ever entered the west gate.”

“Last night we saw a terrible light upon Celebdil,” Legolas said. “There were flashes of fire amidst the clouds. We feared you fought there.”

“Perhaps that is where Thorin has gone,” Gandalf frowned. “We have seen no sign of him other than the litter of this battle.”

“Corpses of foes may be found scattered along a southward path through the next two halls, but after that there is no further sign.” Glorfindel said. “If there is a stair climbing to the peak of the Silvertine, it will be hard to discover.”

“We should go to meet the Galadhrim,” Gandalf muttered, frowning. “I fear our foes will come on us before we may join them.”

“Can we not hope to stop Durin’s Bane before it is set loose on Lothlórien?” Glorfindel drew himself up, proud and fell. “We have those here who may challenge it. And though some of us might fall in our attempt, that would be preferable to releasing such an evil upon the world. Send the men out of the mines, and the halfling-- and the dwarf. The rest of us will face the balrog, and with luck, we will make an end to it.”

“I will not go,” Gimli rumbled, dark and dangerous. 

Legolas barked a laugh, sharp-edged and humorless. “How swiftly has the burden become the burdened! Glorfindel, you will not dissuade him.”

“Nor me,” Aragorn stood, valiant.

“Yet someone must accompany Bilbo, and the Ring should not stay here.”

“If you think to be rid of me, you will have to send me away tied up inside a sack.” Bilbo thrust out his jaw.

“I too will remain, if this ranger does. I fear nothing he does not fear.” Ecthelion shot Aragorn a level look.

Gandalf sighed, throwing up his hands. “Silence! We will all go out together, for I will not lose the Ringbearer to a servant of Morgoth!” He glowered at them all, then gathered Gimli with a gesture. “Lead us out by the swiftest way. My heart misgives me; we may already be too late.”

Gimli guided them back the way he and Legolas had come, moving with haste. “There was once a swifter way, but the stair has crumbled and there are wide gaps,” he told the wizard. “Fleeing this way, we should reach Durin’s Bridge before nightfall, if we meet no foes.”

They went down three levels before reaching a check, but as they stepped out into the breadth of a wide hall near the bridge, arrows began to whistle toward the light on the end of the wizard’s staff, forcing them to retreat back into the corridor.

“There are many orcs and goblins gathered in the hall before us,” Glorfindel warned. “And trolls and ogres too, I think.”

“That is the least of our worries,” Gandalf muttered. “They mean to delay us until Durin’s Bane can come.”

“Gandalf.” Aragorn spoke from the rear, urgent. “Orcs are behind us. We are pursued!”

“Caught between hammer and anvil,” the wizard muttered, grim. “We will do better to fight them in here than to go out and be picked off by a thousand archers.” He squared his shoulders. “Bilbo, stay close by me. Swordsmen to the vanguard. You guard the corridor, Legolas and Gimli; they will come for us from both sides. Draw weapons now and prepare to fight!”


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship confronts the balrog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, b****! I bet you thought you'd heard the last of me.... (Not really! enjoy the chapter. LOL)

Orcs raced up the corridor, meaning to force them out in the hall, shrilling and hooting as they waved their swords. Legolas shot swiftly, picking many off as they came, but Gimli knew he did not have arrows enough to make a dent in the forces they faced. He strode forward, axe flashing, and set about piling foes so deep in the corridor the rest of the orcs would have to drag away the bodies of the fallen to come at the company. Arrows sang around him, but he felt no fear, and soon Legolas himself came forward, his new blades flashing with deadly light. “I must save some arrows,” he said, springing forward to drive his knife through a crease in an ogre’s rough armor. “They will be needed later.”

No archers could come at them and shoot from within the twisting confines of the corridor. Its narrow width kept all but a few orcs away from the party at once, but there were many tens to be seen, and hundreds more behind, hidden from view. Gimli could hear fighting from the rear, as well, and knew it went worse there; foes might come at them in great numbers from the hall. 

Legolas drew near him, almost so close he could not swing his axe. “We cannot fight free,” he darted forward to follow in the wake of a stroke that drew Gimli off-balance, finishing the orc before it could launch its blade through the hole. “We will eventually tire and be lost.”

“That is not Thorin’s plan,” Gimli said, certain of his guess. “Worse is coming.”

Even as he spoke, Gandalf gave a great shout. “Out,” he bellowed, and they fled the corridor in haste, Gimli clearing the wall just before a cascade of crumbling stone slid down, obliterating its mouth. A host of hooting orcs brandished weapons and closed in-- but a path lay open before them where no foes threatened.

“We are being driven,” Gandalf scowled, but there was nothing for it; they must take the chosen path or be crushed by numbers. With Gandalf in the lead, they hurried down a long ramp to the next level, where a wide, ragged chasm cut through the stone flags of the floor, its crumbled edges lit with a ruddy flame from far below. A sucking wind howled through the space, lifting their hair and dragging it toward the opening in ragged tails. 

“There lie the coal-fires that thwarted our progress before, Legolas!” Gimli muttered. “This draft feeds the blaze.”

Gandalf drew himself up, and light flared on the end of his staff. “Brace yourselves!” He shouted. “It is--”

Before he could finish, a dark fume of smoke roiled from the far end of the hall and the floor shook as a terrible thing arose from the chasm and settled, black bat-wings furling behind it, its head wreathed with a mane of flame. 

“The balrog of Morgoth,” Glorfindel cried, shrinking back in dismay. It roared, stalking forward, each step shaking the chamber and making dust sift from the ceiling above. It held a tall, flaming sword in one hand and carried a burning whip of many tails in the other. The whip whined and cracked in threat as it lifted its head and uttered a horrible, creaking laugh, seeing them trapped there between a horde of foes and empty air. 

Trolls strode forward on the far side of the rift, huge and terrible, swinging clubs made from the trunks of mighty trees, but Durin’s Bane dwarfed them in both height and terror, and they hesitated there, holding long stone slabs ready to throw across the breach, should further troops be needed.

An arrow whined past Gimli’s head, and he looked to Legolas, his heart in his mouth-- Unlike the men, Legolas wore only thin suede garments, not even proper stiffened leather armor, and he carried no shield. Gimli cursed himself bitterly. He had been a fool not to insist they wait in Lothlórien for proper gear and armed support. Legolas raised his bow and an arrow of his own took the orcish archer, who toppled into the crevice, but another swiftly sprang forward to replace it. 

Gimli snarled, brandishing his axe, and stepped up behind the wizard-- only they two remained unfrozen; even Glorfindel gazed upon the monster with dread in his eyes, wrapped in fell memory. 

“Surely this thing can be cut!” He swung his axe, battle-lust singing in his veins. “Let us learn if it can bleed. _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”_

The beast stalked forward, groaning and rumbling like a flow of magma, choking smoke pouring everywhere. The reek of black smoke blinded Gimli as it rolled over the ledge where the fellowship stood, caught against the rift that split the great hall, trapping them. A fresh burst of heat baked against his face: flame erupted with a roar from every crackled joint of the crust that formed the demon’s skin. It lifted its whip, the whine and crack of the thongs shaking the ground like thunder. 

The ranks of orcs backed away as it advanced, chittering with terror; even the trolls and distant archers shrank away. Gimli glimpsed a flash of motion, and turned his head: a battalion of Lothlórien elves appeared, firing across the chasm into the orcs. In haste the trolls laid down their slabs and orcs surged forward across them to engage the new foe, but there were too many; the company could not hope to join their allies.

“Fan out! It cannot follow us all!” Aragorn shouted, and as Gandalf strode forth, his staff in the air, he shoved at them so that their feet, frozen in horror, stumbled-- slowly at first, then faster, as they obeyed, spreading out through the hall as best they could in hopes of dividing its attention. 

The wizard lifted his staff and his sword, Glamdring shining pure blue against the hellish, ruddy light. The balrog drew a sword like a tongue of red flame, and it flashed upward, cleaving the smoke, to descend and clatter against the elvish sword in a shower of flying sparks. 

Glorfindel also darted forth, his long hair streaming, and slashed at the balrog’s whip with his own blade, severing one of the writhing thongs. The thing thrashed and coiled on the ground like a serpent with its head severed, curling and twisting dangerously close to the elf’s foot as if alive, seeking flesh. He darted back, flanking Gandalf, his back straight, his head held high, seeming to know no fear.

From far to the left Gimli glimpsed the quicksilver flash of flying arrows. His heart sinking, he spied Legolas advancing there-- sending a gadfly rain of shafts as harmless but vexing as the bite of midges, possibly hoping to draw the thing away from Gimli’s position. Legolas danced at the edge of the chasm, skipping along toeholds in the cavern wall as if they were broad stairsteps, and Gimli groaned to see the beast snarl toward the elf, lashing out with its long whip. Legolas jumped over the thongs, somersaulting and landing neatly on his feet, but he was now cut off from the party, running along a spit of floor behind the demon, still firing at its back.

Aragorn joined him, arrows singing through the smoke, and the balrog roared its anger, swinging again. The man leaped back, stumbling and nearly rolling over the edge of the chasm before he stopped himself, but the whip did not touch him. Thengel caught his arm and hauled him upright, the horse-lord’s face pale beneath stains of soot. 

“Elendil!” Aragorn cried, lifting Narsil aloft, and pressed forward to aid the wizard and Glorfindel. Ecthelion held Bilbo, who struggled in his arms. Gimli followed the hobbit’s tilted chin and wild-eyed stare upward.

Thorin Oakenshield stood there upon a balcony two levels up, his arm outflung to stop Kíli from firing on the demon, his face stern and terrible. Gold rings shone brightly on his hand, and his curling hair lifted in the heat from the beast’s flame. Behind him stood his company, Gimli’s father among them. Glóin’s face was white as he gazed down at the tableau, his hands on his axe, but he was so far away Gimli could not see his expression. 

“Traitorous king!” Gimli felt wrath gather in him, giving force to his bellow. “Coward and friend of Mordor, I name you!” He shook his axe aloft at Thorin. “Come down and fight me!”

Thorin withdrew his arm from Kíli, staring down on Gimli, but though he removed the restraint, Kíli did not open fire, giving Thorin an uncertain glance. 

Then Thorin closed his eyes, lifting his hands, and Gimli was puzzled-- until he heard a sound like the groaning roar of tons of steel dragged over graveled stone, and the inevitable whipcrack heralded a coil of hot pain as one thong curled around his arms and chest, scorching his surcoat and melting his mail.

Gimli bellowed in wrath, trying to swing his axe, but he could only move his wrists, and the blade was clumsy. He spun away from the whip on instinct and came free, mail glowing cherry-red where the thong had wrapped him, smoke rising from his charred clothing. 

The balrog swung its sword at him, ignoring Glorfindel and the wizard. Gimli flung himself to the floor, feeling the sizzling roar of its blade slicing the air where he had stood only instants before. Smoke roiled in its wake, choking him, but he ignored it, rolling to his feet and blundering forward, leading with his axe. He dashed right between the thing’s legs, hacking aside as he went, and the blade sank into the tendon behind the balrog’s ankle, making it scream. 

“One for the dwarf!” Glorfindel’s voice echoed in the hall, bright with triumph. The balrog screamed again, though he could not see how it had been hit; a flash of white light blinded him and left him stumbling. 

Then Legolas was there, hand fisted in the neck his coat, dragging him forward. Gimli blinked his streaming eyes clear of soot and saw the blade of his axe was coated with glowing slag, the lifeblood of Durin’s Bane. He slapped the flat against the floor, shattering away the solidifying residue, and turned; the demon had locked its blade with Glorfindel’s, slowly bearing him backward.

Gimli shook off Legolas’s hand and darted in again-- targeting the same vulnerable spot, the wound blazing white-hot. He swung with all his strength, burying the head of the axe, a spatter of molten flesh stinging against Gimli’s arms and legs. He ignored it, snatching his damaged blade free for a third strike. 

The balrog trumpeted, its wings thrashing, the buffeting wall of heat driving Gimli to the ground-- and Legolas too, following him stubbornly, his two short swords flashing up to intercept as the balrog snatched its blade free and swung on them, limping on its injured leg.

The blade fell with a weight that drove Legolas to his knees, searing heat gathering in a cloud that boiled the very air, making it waver and tremble. Gimli heard Legolas gasp and he swung his axe aloft in haste, battering at the flaming sword, trying to drive it aside. He cursed, brimstone and sulphur burning in his lungs, and battered at the blade again. The balrog screamed as someone struck it from behind, but Gimli’s only thought was for the desperate straining of Legolas’s shoulders, the cords in his throat, the smoke as tendrils of his hair curled and withered in the flame of the beast as it bore down its weight upon him.

He drew his hand-axe and flung it at the thing’s face, cursing; it sank below the balrog’s eye and the monster opened its mouth to roar rage at him, pulling back to launch a fresh strike.

Gimli flung himself over the elf, bearing Legolas down beneath him as a wall of punishing heat scalded over them both. But the wounded beast had lost its confidence; instead of stooping to finish them, it pumped its leathery wings and flung itself aloft. 

Gimli scrambled up as it flew, struggling to extinguish his burning coat, slapping at the flames that kindled on the elf’s tunic and in his hair. The balrog hovered, grit and dust flying from the downbeat of its wings; Gandalf lifted his staff and a ray of brilliant white light shot forth, driving it farther up. 

A shout from the balcony drew Gimli’s eye-- Bilbo had escaped Ecthelion’s hold. He swarmed up the textured carvings of the wall as if he were an elf in his own right, then grappled with Thorin as if struggling to wrest something from his hand. Thorin snarled, catching the halfling around the chest, and hauled him away kicking and screaming. Kíli gave a final frantic glance down at the hall, then fled after them. Gimli could no longer find his father.

The balrog growled and its whip whined, licking out toward Legolas and Gimli once more, but the elf caught a thong between his swords, scissoring it loose. He kicked it aside, nearly entangling himself in its writhing coils. Thwarted, under attack from all sides, the balrog folded its wings and dropped, shattering the stone slab bridges and vanishing down the chasm in a fiery blur that fell for a distance, then lifted a wing and rolled aside, vanishing into some side-hall.

Gandalf groaned, straightening his back and glancing about. No sign of the elves remained, but the orcs had gone.

“Ecthelion! Could you not stop the halfling?” He growled, his eyes flashing. 

“The little bastard bit me,” the man spat, holding aloft a hand dripping with blood.

“Gandalf, we must pursue our foe while it is yet wounded. The cost of injuring it is too high to allow it to recover before we face it again.” Glorfindel sheathed his sword in its singed scabbard, his hair a burned and ragged halo around his face. 

“You are right, though I mislike leaving Bilbo to Thorin. --At least he is not a prisoner of orcs. But we need the lady. My own powers are of little use against a creature of fire.”

Gimli became aware of pain and threw off his surcoat in haste. His smoldering armor followed, and he stood there only in his leather undertunic and breeches, arms bare and hair badly singed. 

He surveyed the mess. His surcoat was a ruin, so badly burned it would fall apart in tatters if he tried to put it on once more.

“Lend me a knife, elf?” He took the blade and slit the seam of his coat, letting the gleaming gold of his little hoard pour out. He reached to gather up the coins, dropping the tattered coat-- and another bit of bright gold slid out, rolling away across the cavern floor. He heard the noise, searching the ground with a scowl.

“Is this what you seek?” Legolas picked the bead up and weighed it in his palm, and Gimli raised his eyes to find the elf examining the carved runes and the delicate beech leaf of the _o’fih_ he had made.

“This is a twin to the ornament you have worn since Rivendell,” Legolas murmured. “Why do you hide it away?” 

Gimli reached for the bead in an agony of haste, but Legolas gazed on him with narrowed eyes and did not return it. Slowly he reached to his hair, pulling free a lock. Gimli’s face went pale.

“Legolas!” he managed to gasp, but Legolas was not stayed; he threaded the bead into his hair, then knotted the lock fast beneath--crude but strong, so the bead would not be lost. 

“My pledge is given,” Legolas said steadily. “ _Na-herven_ , I know your heart, and it is the same as my own.”

“That cannot be!” Gimli gasped, agonized. “I have fought Durin’s Bane to save you; I will not be the instrument of your death!”

Legolas drew a soft breath, his eyes meeting Gimli’s with steady calm. “Haldir spoke to you then of elves who choose the Halls of Mandos after their lovers die? I thought that must be what had changed you so.”

“He did.” Gimli met the elf’s gaze just as steadily. “You did not tell me what we did was a threat to you.”

“It is not.” Legolas’s eyes flashed. “As I told him when we argued upon the talan. It is not his place to interfere.”

“I remember Giledhel.” Gimli did not miss the way Legolas flinched, slight though it was. “I had a right to know.” Gimli swallowed anger, blowing it out on a long breath. “This is not the time or place, Legolas, but we must talk of this again.”

“We will,” the elf agreed, somber. “But will you not kiss me, Gimli, before we return to the fray? One of us might fall, and I would not part from you with discord between us.”

Gimli flicked a glance toward Glorfindel, who still watched without expression, and sighed. “I will.” He reached up, tugging lightly at the knotted lock of the elf’s golden hair, drawing him down. 

Legolas bent, nuzzling against his cheek, and shyly sought his mouth. Their lips brushed, tentative, then clung-- despite all his resolve, Gimli felt himself melt, kissing Legolas with yearning tenderness. Legolas sighed happily into his mouth, sensing his yielding, and their tongues slid lightly together: sweet clean fire, pure and bright, eclipsing the memory of evil for a long, timeless moment before they parted. 

Around them all the voices of their company fell silent as men, wizard, and elf stared at them in amazement. 

Gimli pulled back at last, scowling past Legolas toward the watching faces. The elf drew himself upright, holding his shoulders upright with pride. 

“Gimli!” Aragorn sounded half-strangled in his shock. “How long has this grown between you?”

He shot the man a quelling glare. “Since he spared my beard in his father’s house,” he said shortly, and from the corner of his eye, he marked the deepening curve of the elf’s lips. 

“Put your eyes back in your head and learn to use them next time,” Gandalf admonished the ranger, but Gimli could hear the amusement hidden under his stern tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!_ : Axes of the dwarves! The dwarves are upon you!  
>  _o'fih_ : literally "art of the bead," a troth-bead created by Gimli using all his craft  
>  _Na-herven_ : Husband-to-be


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship pursues the balrog.

Gimli’s armor had cooled enough to wear, so he struggled into it again Bits of the jointed plate had fused, and some areas of the ringmail sleeves were melted solid, but it was better than nothing, especially with so many orcs about. 

“Gandalf!” Gimli called to the wizard, who was studying the hall’s various passages and archways, his brows drawn down in a scowl. “There is a faster way down.” He led the wizard toward the wall, where a dark shaft lay behind a vented frieze. Gimli pried it out and set it aside. “These chutes were made to speed transit between the main halls in time of war. If the men fit within them, we can slide down to the next level speedily-- and then take new chutes until we have passed as far down as we wish to go. Durin’s Bane will not expect us to follow so quickly.”

He stepped back suddenly, a hand falling to his axe as scuffling sounded inside the shaft-- then dropped his hand with a gasp as stout iron-shod boots appeared, followed swiftly by a dwarf: his father, then Balin, Dwalin, and Óin.

Glóin scowled at them all, but straightened with pride. “I refuse to remain in thrall to the mad king who enslaved my son, then sent Durin’s Bane to kill him,” he growled. The others nodded embarrassed agreement, Óin holding his trumpet to his ear intently so as not to miss a word. Dwalin scuffed his boots on the stone, clearly not best pleased with the decision, but Balin beamed at the wizard and stepped forward to clasp his hands.

“You are welcome indeed!” Gandalf said, and started introductions, but Gimli strode forward and clasped his father tight against him, unable to speak, his throat closed with emotion. 

“He has the three dwarf-rings that escaped the dragons,” Glóin muttered, ashamed. “He uses them to control Durin’s Bane and the orcs that infest this place. I do not see how he can be defeated, yet we would not stand at his side now that he has done such black evil. I was wrong to follow him.” 

“I am glad you have come to your senses,” Gimli whispered, still embracing his father. “I forgive what was done.” 

“Enough,” Gandalf said, though his voice was kind. “We must make haste to pursue our foe,” He set his hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder and gave him a slight push back toward the chute. “We have no time to tarry.” His voice was gentle as he turned his gaze on them, his eyes kind. “Will you lead the way, Gimli?” 

“Aye.” He marched forward toward the shaft, scowling as he felt the weight of stares resting on him. At least his father had not seen him kissing the elf!

He ducked into the chute and slid downward, counting out loud to mark the levels as he went.

The chutes were long square tunnels set for climbing or dropping-- two sides fluted with grooves for finger- and toe-holds, two left smooth for a swift downward slide. Shadowspawn had made use of them, and they were befouled with filth from many orcish hands and feet, but otherwise they seemed clear. 

It was difficult for the men to squeeze inside armed and armored as they were, but they were able to work their way down, grumbling at the press of the walls about their shoulders. Gimli led the way, reading aloud the runes marking each level. 

They descended for many feet in a straight line before they had to leave the shaft and move to another so they might continue downward. Gandalf lighted the way with his staff, muttering to himself. Gimli thought the old wizard looked worn and tired. 

“I would give much to know where the elves of Lórien have gone,” Gandalf muttered to Glorfindel. “They will not find us easily again.”

“Thorin’s plan has worked thus far,” Ecthelion stretched his shoulders, preparing for the next descent. 

“He is right.” Even Thengel was subdued. “We are separated from our allies and we have lost the halfling… even the balrog has eluded us.”

“Not for long.” Gimli set his jaw, his fingers tracing over a map carved in the wall. “This is a map of the chutes. I believe the balrog is on the eighteenth level; only that level opened to a natural cavern so wide it might have flown through a chink in the wall as it fell. We can reach the hall in four more transits.”

“We will go down, then,” Aragorn said, his face grim. “Though we may not find our way out again so easily.”

“It will be a long climb,” Gandalf agreed. “Yet if we can dispatch this foe, it will be worth nearly any sacrifice.”

Gimli glanced aside, and grimaced to himself, then stepped away from the group, moving to a corner where a heap of bodies lay moldering. Dwarves, their corpses seared and crumbling… yet they held weapons, the hafts of their axes shod with iron, still intact.

“Forgive me, my forefathers,” Gimli bowed, going to one knee. “I would take up your axes and use them to slay your foes.”

He reached carefully and loosed the axes from the clasp of withered fingers, tucking three throwing axes into his belt, taking two long hand axes to replace his own melted blade. He slung a shield over his back as well-- a long one with a flat base, so he could crouch behind it if the beast breathed fire.

He was conscious of Legolas drawing near behind him, the elf shining faintly in the gloom, standing respectfully as Gimli made his obeisance and rose, clutching his new weapons.

“They would be honored to have you take up their axes, Gimli,” Legolas said softly. Behind him Gandalf held his staff aloft, studying the map Gimli had found. The men busied themselves with their gear and Glorfindel watched Legolas with Gimli, his head tilted to one side, unspeaking. Glóin watched sharply also, and Gimli knew his father saw his _o’fih_ shining in the elf’s hair.

Legolas laid a comforting hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “You did more harm to the foe than any of us. Even the balrog-slayer will not be swift to discount your valor now, _meleth_.”

Gimli flushed. “When it came between us, I could not rest until I was at your side once more.” 

It was Legolas’s turn to color. “I meant to turn its attention away from you, if I could, not to draw you further into a hopeless battle.”

“Do not risk yourself for my sake.” Gimli felt a lump grow in his throat, threatening to choke him. “Whether from fading or in battle, I could not bear to be the cause of your death, _ghivashel_.” He stamped away from Legolas, feeling self-conscious, and stared a challenge at his father, who looked uncomfortable but was clearly still listening. 

“What say you now?” He barked, tipping his head to nod at Legolas. “Do you still find fault with my One?”

Glóin swallowed hard and lifted his chin. “I watched him fight the demon at your side. It seems Mahal has blessed me with a second son.” He turned his cautious gaze to Legolas as they waited their turn to climb into the chute, giving him a grudging bow. “He is too tall and would look far better with a beard, but he is a deadly warrior.”

Legolas bowed, then smiled calmly at Glorfindel, whose eyes were round with astonishment. 

They went down through another set of chutes, but the air was hot and stuffy. When they emerged, they found they could use the chutes to descend no further, for the wall that held the next chute baked with heat, and any who approached it grew dizzy for want of air.

“We are too near the fires,” Gimli muttered. “The fuel for the forges has been ignited, and it will smolder long and hot-- perhaps for many years. Even if we could breathe to reach the next chute, we could not survive a descent through such heat.”

“The balrog has taken refuge amidst the flames,” Glorfindel sighed. “In them it will heal its hurts. When it returns, it will be as if we never injured it before.”

“Then we must retreat and unite with the elves of Lothlórien,” Gandalf said heavily. “Bilbo’s diversion of Thorin’s malice is timely, but it will not last long. We should take whatever rest we can. My heart tells me there will be much toil in battle before we may depart the Dwarrowdelf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _o’fih_ : art of the bead  
>  _meleth_ : beloved  
>  _ghivashel_ : treasure of all treasures


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimli and Legolas spend a night together.
> 
> Warning: Chapter is NSFW for sexual content and is not very plot-heavy so if you want to skip this part, feel free!

As the group set out in search of the Lothlórien elves, Legolas’s hand lightly fell on Gimli’s shoulder, holding him back so the two of them walked last. “Gimli.” The elf sounded hesitant, almost shy. “Now that we have come to understand one another, can we not put aside our fears and love before it is too late? I fear we will not leave this long dark alive, but I would not pass without first knowing your touch.”

“You do not understand,” Gimli said, hoarse with pain. “How can I bear to make love to you when every touch of my hand, every thrust of my cock, would be a sword stroke to send you to your grave?”

Legolas did not remove his hand, though they lingered behind, letting a small distance come between them and the others. “It need not be so, though I almost feel if you refuse me, I might succumb to grief even now; I have awakened to know you as my mate, and will not be content without you.” He reached for Gimli’s hand, lacing their fingers together as they walked. 

“Haldir meant well, _meleth,_ but he had no right to try to turn you aside from me.” He shook his head sadly. “My choice is mine to make, not his or yours. It is true elves may die after such a loss, but I am not Arwen, not of the _peredhel_. I will not be forced to choose between mortal life and immortality, and I will not be doomed to certain death as the price of loving you.” He reached out slowly with his free hand, trailing his fingertips against Gimli’s beard. “Even if I were, making love is not the irrevocable act that will condemn me to die, a thing that left undone will preserve my safety.” He lifted his hand to his hair and caressed the bead that spoke of Gimli’s love. “My heart is already given,” he whispered. 

Gimli bowed his head, overcome with speechless emotion, for he knew Legolas would not surrender. 

They stopped just short of joining the company, who had found a resting place in an alcove along a narrow hall, one of many lying side by side in the gloom. It seemed quiet enough, and the corridor was so narrow and low that nothing greater than an orc or ogre might use it: it was at least a refuge from trolls and the balrog.

Legolas turned to Gimli, his expression sober. “When you pass, I need not choose either to linger here through the long ages in torment or give up my _fëa_. Unlike Undómiel, I may have my time with you, then sail across the sea to Valinor, where legend would have it all hurts are healed.” He watched as Gimli’s eyes searched his face, anxious. 

“Promise me you will do that,” Gimli said hoarsely, seizing to it as though to his last hope, clasping Legolas’s hand so tightly it hurt. “Do not linger in anguish, but do not choose to die. Sail and live, if you love me.”

Legolas met his gaze and gave him a firm nod. “I promise: I will sail before I give up my _fëa_ for love of you,” he said softly, but he did not choose to speak his thought that he might grieve even in Valinor, knowing Gimli would never arise from the Halls of Mandos to return to him. What would be, would be: his heart was already Gimli’s. He would not change it if he could. 

They went in with the group and laid down their burdens, but when their companions huddled together to debate their course before resting, Legolas would not join them. He smiled on Gimli, slid his fingers deeply into the dwarf’s thick, red beard, and spoke his desire, his voice soft. “Will you put aside your fear and come away to lie with me, _meleth?_ For I love you, and my desire to touch you is a torment to me.” 

Overhearing, Dwalin raised a startled brow and Gimli felt himself flush with embarrassment. It seemed as if the eyes of the entire company followed them, but Legolas let him go and arose with determination. Gimli would not make him wait alone and rejected. He tried to seem casual as he followed, though Dwalin chuckled loudly to himself and elbowed Balin. 

Gandalf gave them a sly wink. “Do not stray far,” he warned, and Gimli gave him a hasty, mortified nod, then fled, turning aside to the anteroom where Legolas stood waiting. The elf smiled on him, faintly illuminated by the glow of the wizard’s staff, which seeped into the corridor as if intended to light their way to one another. The shy welcome in Legolas’s expression wrung Gimli’s heart. 

Legolas caught Gimli’s hand and drew him aside into the gloom of the enclosure. It was clean of orc-filth, empty but dusty, and they might curl together unseen only steps from the rest of their company. Gimli wondered how much would be overheard; the tunnels echoed, magnifying every sound. He could hear their companions shifting about nearby, the mutter of voices, the muffled thump of feet on stone. A soft laugh arose from Aragorn, and a jovial response from Gandalf, who stood guard over them all.

Though they might have loved in the gold-dappled leaves of Lórien itself, to Gimli this barren, dusty stone chamber was as beautiful and fitting as any grand hall of elves, dwarves, or men-- for Legolas was within, and nothing else could matter to Gimli. 

Legolas bent without speaking, twining their hands together and kissing his face-- slow, lingering kisses full of a tender yearning that made Gimli shiver and decide he did not care what anyone heard. 

He leaned forward and caught Legolas’s mouth, kissing him far more urgently, making Legolas gasp and open for him, letting him in, meeting his tongue with tentative licks that swiftly turned hot and needful. Gimli made a low rumble of approval, tugging Legolas down to the floor and arranging him across his lap. His body was long and awkward, but Gimli persisted until he had him as he liked, where he might run his hands over Legolas’s body from shoulder to knee without strain. 

They had almost lost one another in battle, almost lost their chance for this, and Gimli knew they would not hesitate for the sake of shyness or even modesty, cleaving together with instinctive urgency in their need to claim one another at last. Here they would have what belonged only between them lest it be lost to death before they claimed one another.

He could hear Legolas panting, breath loud for once, hot in Gimli’s ear and on his face. “Shh,” he murmured, and slid his hand along the elf’s chest to his belly, feeling muscles quiver with eagerness. He lifted his mouth and found Legolas’s ear, knowing what it would do to him. He settled there tenderly, taking the cuff between his teeth and suckling, strumming his tongue between the wires.

Legolas gave a low, desperate cry, rousing Gimli to fierce, possessive pride-- let them hear; let them know he claimed his beloved! Legolas’s breath came quick and frantic, as though he had run many leagues; his body arched up in a mute plea for the touch of Gimli’s hand.

“Yes,” Gimli breathed into his ear, and removing his gloves he slid his hand downward, finding the laces that bound Legolas in his breeches, loosening them, seeking inside. 

Legolas’s breath sobbed in his ear as he curled his fingers around the slender cock he found there, hot and silky and eager, leaping to fill his hand. The elf tucked his face against Gimli’s neck, trying to muffle the sounds he made-- tiny, needful catches in his throat, almost whimpers. 

Gimli rumbled low, wordless comfort to him, hearing their companions falter, glad when Thengel’s rich, rolling voice mercifully rose to tell a story, masking any small sounds they might make together. Legolas could not keep silent, moaning in response to each stroke of Gimli’s firm hand on him, so Gimli nuzzled to take a kiss, capturing his lips and devouring his little sounds, swallowing them whole. 

The elf’s hips lifted, driving a fierce, needy pace, and Gimli met it, tightening his hand, swirling his thumb around the tip at the peak of every stroke. The elf’s whole body trembled like an aspen leaf in the wind and Legolas flung his arms around Gimli, his moans louder now, more desperate. He cried out wildly as he came, a sound that echoed and made the voices of the others fall to brief, embarrassed silence before they resumed speaking. Gimli ignored them, catching the release in his palm, gentling Legolas tenderly as he gasped for breath, wholly undone, twined around Gimli and refusing to let go. 

The elf was glowing, the soft silvery illumination that Gimli had glimpsed before; it was very strong now, pushing darkness back to the corners of the room. Legolas’s eyes were hazy and half-lidded, his face soft with wonder, his lips parted as he drew deep, luxuriant breaths.

Gimli withdrew his hand, wiping it clean in haste, and pulled the elf down to lie against him on the floor, Legolas’s thigh thrown over his, head pillowed on his shoulder. 

He guided Legolas’s hand to his need, where he lay straining against his breeches, and Legolas inhaled softly in pleased surprise, pressing a kiss to Gimli’s lips, then laughed-- pure joy and delight, and his eager hand found its way inside to close around Gimli and stroke him in turn. Gimli flung his arm over his mouth, determined to be silent, but the elf’s fingers were hot and nimble, and he learned quickly. His touch proved adventurous enough that Gimli slowly lost his battle for silence, breathing harshly, dragging Legolas close for a deep, hungry kiss and murmuring in pleasure at his touch.

Legolas pulled away, smiling in the dim, and leaned close to his ear, his voice rich and languorous in a way Gimli had never heard it before.

“I want to hold you inside my body,” he whispered on a breath, lips brushing Gimli’s skin, and Gimli cried aloud as the thought of taking Legolas crashed through him like a thunderbolt-- a long, rumbling growl echoing as he spent in hot, helpless pulses, each wrung from the very depths of his being.

A pause ensued, absolutely silent, and Gimli held his breath, biting his lip.

“Well,” he heard Ecthelion mutter, frosty with annoyance. “If they have finished at last, and if their noise has not summoned all the orcs of Moria to fall upon us, perhaps we can finally get some sleep.”

Legolas only laughed, and after a moment Gimli found he could not help but laugh as well, giddy with joy as he wrapped his elf tightly in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _meleth,_ : my love  
>  _peredhel_ : half elven  
>  _fëa_ : spirit


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin accepts Bilbo's bargain.
> 
> WARNING: this is the chapter I've been worried everyone is going to hate. Dark, dark Bagginshield happens in this chapter. NSFW, dubious consent, coercion, manipulation

Bilbo struggled against Thorin’s arms, but they locked like steel bands about his chest, and in the end he could only clutch his Ring safe in one fist and let the dwarf carry him as though he were a sack of meal. 

“Balin?” Thorin called, but none answered, and he cursed. “Dwalin? Where have they--” he descended into a bitter torrent of Khuzdul. “Come, Kíli, stay near me, and you, Nori, Ori, Náli. I will reward you richly for your loyalty when we have done.”

Bilbo blinked. Some of the dwarves must have left to join Gandalf and the company? Good for them. Or bad for them. He struggled, kicking, but Thorin was well-armored and there was nowhere to sink his teeth. He could see next to nothing; even the red glow of the balrog’s fire was receding behind them, and all that was left was the pitch black of the tunnels.

“They can burn in the demon’s fist,” Thorin snarled. “We have what I require.” He shook Bilbo, who bit his tongue but was silent. “Once I have made good my bargain, Moria will once again be ours.”

Bilbo tasted blood and closed his eyes, but his impulse was more to weep than to curse. He could see how it had begun: the slow simmering rage corrupting a pure heart as he waited his chance to reclaim Erebor, the gold of the hoard turning determination to something darker, leaving chinks for madness to thread in and break the pure stone of Thorin Oakenshield, so the shadow might find its purchase there later. One slow step at a time, the dwarf Bilbo had only begun to know had turned into someone else before he had ever begun to know him.

“Your bargain,” he said bitterly. He could guess the terms without asking, and his spine tingled with fear, his insides turning to water. The nazgûl. They would come to carry him away to Mordor. The terms did not matter. He wondered if Thorin knew that or even cared.

“My bargain,” Thorin agreed, but offered no information. They halted in a stone chamber with a single shaft to the outside. It showed a dim orange light, as of the setting sun; faded tapestries covered in dust hung on the walls. Upon a plinth in the center of the room stood a rusted but heavy iron cage slightly higher than Bilbo was tall, giving him just enough room to curl up and lie down. Fresh bolts held the cage to the floor, gleaming against darker rust-stained metal.

Thorin shoved him inside and chained the door, fastening it with a heavy lock and key. Bilbo could put his hand and arm through one of the squares in the bars, but that was all; his head would not fit between them. Thorin was taking no chances.

Thorin withdrew the key and studied it. “I know your tricksome ways,” he said, voice dark and dry, then let Bilbo watch as he hung the key upon a chain and draped it over his neck, tucking the key inside the breastplate of his armor. “You will not find it easy to escape me, burglar.”

Bilbo’s mind raced, turning over ideas and possibilities and chances. None of them seemed good, but anything was better than sitting in this cell waiting for the nazgûl to come and claim him.

“I have not,” he faltered, his mind clicking over with swift calculation even as his heart quailed inside him. He only possessed one lever of any strength, of any value that might be enough to reach Thorin. “I never escaped you.”

Thorin bared his teeth in a half-snarl, glowering at Bilbo, but Bilbo could sense his indecision; he hesitated, his dark eyes level. 

Bilbo turned his head toward the light, letting his lip quiver. His heart beat fast, a hot sick feeling growing in his belly. “You should have negotiated.”

“I would not, with armies at my door.”

“I had no army.” Bilbo lifted his chin, his tongue flickering out to wet his lips. “You should have negotiated with me.” 

“You had nothing I wanted.” Thorin sounded confused. “Not after giving them the stone.”

Bilbo raised a brow. “Oh no. Not nothing. No, I don’t think so.” He shook his head, swallowing hard, and lifted his fingertips to the collar of his shirt, stroking the mithril that peeped through-- the courtship gift Thorin had given him. “And now I have even more value, I think.” He let his fingers dip lower, to brush the Ring where it hung upon its chain. “So by all means, let the negotiations begin.”

“Everything I want is within my grasp! Why should I negotiate when I can take what I want?” Thorin stalked forward, growling, and thrusting his arm through the grate, he seized Bilbo’s nape in one powerful hand. Bilbo felt the cold bars of the cage against his face.

It will be rather a chore for you to take what you want with me penned in here.” He licked his lips, desperate. “Let me out, and you can take me as you like. Don’t tell the wraiths I’ve been captured, and I’ll go to your bed willing. Further terms to be negotiated on the fly, of course.”

“Willing?” For a moment he saw the Thorin he loved: the dark eyes widened in shock, and a ghost of uncertainty passed over the dwarf’s stern face. Bilbo’s heart twisted in his chest; now he too was guilty of exploiting Thorin’s weakness, no less than Sauron. But there was no better choice.

“Willing. We have yet to settle on conditions for ‘eager,’ mind you.” Bilbo drew himself up as Thorin’s hand faltered, releasing its grip. “Don’t try to take my Ring, and I’ll give you that.” He straightened his coat, steeling himself to do as he had promised, and extended his hand through the bars. “Shake on it? That will make it a proper gentleman’s agreement.”

“You are no gentleman,” Thorin said, and darkness warred with desire in his eyes. “This bartering of yourself… you are no better than a common whore!”

“I make a very uncommon whore, I think you’ll discover,” Bilbo heard his own voice quaver, and tried to steady it. “Because I am the one you want.” He left his hand where it was. 

A voice of fear in his mind yammered caution at Bilbo-- reminding him of Thorin the honorless, of the abandoned bargain with the men of Laketown. This would all be done for nothing in the end. Even if Thorin meant to honor the bargain, the nazgûl would not hold off forever. And then there was the not-so-small matter of Durin’s Bane! But another voice, silky and cool, insisted he could have this mad fool of a king eating from the palm of his hand. If he played his cards with care, he could have everything he desired: Thorin’s bed and body, his Ring, and the wealth of Moria into the bargain.

Struggling between doubt and temptation, Bilbo’s plain hobbit-sense told him one fact for certain: to deal with any of the threats that menaced him, he had to be on the other side of these sodding bars, and if this farce did nothing else but get him out of the cage and leave him in possession of his Ring, it was worth anything. Everything. 

Thorin slowly took his hand and Bilbo shook it firmly-- then let his fingers trail through Thorin’s palm as he withdrew, a butterfly-light caress, a promise that set Thorin’s eyes aflame.

Taking a low, thick breath, heavy with desire, Thorin dragged the key from his breast and set it in the lock. Then he hesitated, reaching to one side, and Bilbo’s heart sank as chains clanked.

“Put this on your wrist,” Thorin commanded, and watched closely as Bilbo shut the lock. He tugged automatically against the manacle, but it was well-chosen; even his hobbit-sized hand would not slide back through the hole. 

Thorin unlocked the cage, and set the second shackle about his own wrist. It barely fit, pressing into the skin, but he did not seem to care. Bilbo watched, wondering what he could barter for release from the manacles. Specific sex acts? An oath of fealty? No, Thorin would accept no oath, and this was all the freedom he would be granted.

Bilbo swallowed, nervous, and stepped out of the cage, preparing to await his best opportunity. 

“No time for pleasure now, I suppose.” He drew himself up to bounce on his toes a bit.

“The fire demon has retreated to heal its wounds,” Thorin rumbled. “And your friends have gone after it, in their folly. We wait now for Dain’s folk and my kin from the Ered Luin.” He turned abruptly and strode out, dragging Bilbo with him. “There is plenty of time for you to fulfill your bargain now, and make no mistake, you will not slither out of it.”

He hauled Bilbo stumbling through several passages, until the pressure of his fingers upon a featureless wall opened a hidden door, revealing a sumptuous apartment within, torches half-burned in their sconces. The furnishings were dusty and rotten, but still intact, and in the center of the floor lay a wide dwarf bed. It sat atop a round pedestal very low to the floor, with a thin mattress and many velvet pillows. The dust had been beaten from the bedding, and though a distinct musty smell still remained, it was quite acceptably clean for someone who had spent weeks lying on bare, damp ground wrapped in a muddy blanket.

Narrow stone pillars rose from the head of the bed and its bottom corners, carved in dwarvish knots and supporting canopy coverings still festooned with dust. Thorin unclipped the manacle from around his wrist and thrust Bilbo onto the bed, then passed the chain behind one post and refastened the shackle to his other wrist, leaving him lying on his back with both hands fastened above his head.

“I can’t service you properly like this,” Bilbo babbled, seeing his precious freedom draining away like lifeblood. “You can’t even undress me properly. Leave me a hand free--!”

“I will take what I wish as I wish it,” Thorin husked, staring down at him, standing upon the mattress. He began to unbuckle pieces of armor, tossing them behind him to clatter on the floor. He licked his lips, his eyes wild. “I have waited too long.”

Bilbo lay helpless, staring up as Thorin tore away armor until he wore only his tunic and breeches, then shed those too and stood above him unclad: thick and solid, a mat of fierce dark hair covering chest and belly, broad thighs and shoulders and powerful thick hands poised.

Bilbo could not stop a moan as Thorin descended to kneel on either side of his hips, reaching to grasp his belt, ripping the buckle open and tossing it away, then forcing his clothing aside. His coat parted, and Thorin pushed his shirt and mail to bunch under his chin, about his shoulders.

He felt his nipples crinkle in the chill air. Thorin’s heat baked against his stomach, hot and urgent, warm velvet skin brushing his above the waistband of his trousers. The dwarf’s hard hands swept over the skin he had bared, and Thorin licked his lips. He leaned forward, hair tickling Bilbo’s chest, eyes fixed on the Ring.

“Thorin!” Bilbo bucked, unable to budge him. “You wanted me eager. That was our bargain!” His wrists wrung painfully in the manacles, but he could not free himself. 

Thorin’s eyes dilated and his hand rose, then hovered, beginning a slow descent. Desperate, Bilbo lifted his hips again. “Take me, Thorin, please…!”

His words shattered the spell, and Thorin’s gaze returned to his face, half-confused, a more pressing lust swiftly dawning. He raised his body and hooked his fingers under Bilbo’s waistband, stripping breeches and underclothing from him in one rapid yank, tangling them about his shins, then dragging them over his feet to free his legs.

Bilbo writhed, arching up to seem willing-- but with cold purpose in mind. To his relief the Ring slid sideways, lost in the tangle of clothes at his throat. 

Thorin moved to kneel between his legs, pushing his thighs apart; again his eyes raked Bilbo, this time seeing his flesh. His hands lingered on the tender skin, thumbs moving in slow circles as he surveyed what he had conquered.

Despite all of it, Bilbo’s heart knew him, his body responding to the strangely gentle touch, to the moment of hesitation at the heart of violence. His Thorin was in there somewhere. He was lost, not gone. Bilbo refused to believe it.

“Thorin,” he said softly, and his cock stirred, slowly straightening to lie flat on his stomach. He crooked his knees, fully aware of what he did-- wanting it low in the pit of his belly. “Oil, Thorin. Is there oil?”

Thorin reached aside, mesmerized, never removing his eyes from Bilbo as he fumbled at the bedtable to find what was needed, and Bilbo realized he had become the spell that ensnared Thorin. For this moment at least, he held the reins in a tentative grasp.

“Free my arm,” he whispered. “And I will make myself ready for you.”

Thorin obeyed, handing him the bottle and removing the cork, but he re-fastened the empty manacle about his own wrist, and now both their hands were trapped by the pillar. Slowly his hand sought Bilbo’s, and by instinct, he twined their fingers together. 

Tears gathered in the corners of Bilbo’s eyes, streaming down his temples, but he clumsily oiled his fingers and reached to do as he had promised. Thorin drew back and watched, breathing heavily, as Bilbo slid his fingers inside himself, darting a glance at Thorin’s cock and despairing at its size even as his belly lurched with arousal. “Give me a moment, Thorin. Just a little time. Can’t take that all at once. I’m too small.” He tried a nervous smile. This was his version of eager, and Thorin seemed to know it, stroking his palm over his cock as if hypnotized.

He bent, his breath warm on Bilbo’s chest, and his hot tongue lapped over one nipple, making Bilbo whimper. It could have been so good between them, if not for the accursed gold…. 

Thorin kissed him again, then sank his teeth, delicate but firm, shivering Bilbo with a sweet flame of mingled pain and pleasure. He gasped, nearly forgetting the need to ready himself, breath gusting from his chest in a low huff of desire. 

“Enough,” he purred, and took up the discarded oil, slicking his own fingers. He took Bilbo’s hand and pushed it away, replacing it with his own. 

Bilbo swallowed hard, staring frantically up into the shadowed canopy. He felt strangely aware of the dwarf, as if he could all but read Thorin’s mind: not that it was difficult; all his focus now centered on Bilbo, and on what he was about to do.

Thorin’s golden ring felt bulky, blood-warm, stretching Bilbo painfully as the thick finger slid inside his body. Bilbo heard himself mewling, and would have blushed if he had the blood for it, but it had all gone south to his cock, which bobbed now, standing up and leaving small streaks of gleaming silver as it bounced against his belly. 

Thorin fucked him slowly first with one finger, then with two, demonstrating a patience Bilbo had no longer believed he possessed. The third finger made him squeal, his heels drumming on the mattress, but Thorin was inexorable, and in a few minutes Bilbo was gasping, squirming from side to side with eagerness, his lost right hand still locked with Thorin’s left, and Thorin withdrew his fingers, wiping them in haste upon the bedding.

“Now,” Thorin growled against his throat, settling atop Bilbo, his cock nudging for entrance. 

Yes. Bilbo lifted his body and gave himself, mindless of everything but sensation as he was made the helpless sheath to Thorin’s heavy flesh. Thorin’s mouth sought his, and Bilbo kissed back, teeth savage on Thorin’s lips as the unexpected need came to him: the need to control, to have, to claim just as he was claimed. 

He moaned, battling Thorin’s dominant tongue with his own, lifting to meet the first hard push of Thorin’s hips, their bodies driving together with force that made sparkles explode behind Bilbo’s closed lids. Thorin’s free hand roved over him without hesitation, testing the texture of his skin and the motion of his limbs, finding his jaw and his collarbone, sliding along his ribs, exploring the place where they now joined, driving him mad with the insistent sensual press of callused fingers. 

He locked the crook of his own free arm behind Thorin’s neck, holding him in the kiss; the rocking of their bodies rutted his cock against Thorin’s belly, and he knew it could not last long. He knotted his fist in Thorin’s silver-streaked hair. He would make the most of this, accept it for what it was, use it as he must… accept it for what it was and enjoy it as much as he could, for it was all that remained to him of Thorin Oakenshield. 

Thorin groaned, hand sliding between their bellies to wrap around his cock, his hips moved faster as he pumped Bilbo in his hand, and Bilbo keened for it. His weight settled as his hips began to jerk out of control; too crushed to buck up against him, Bilbo pleaded, cursing, and Thorin’s teeth sank fiercely at his throat, a jolt of sensation that drove him over the edge and made him spend between them, his come matting in the dark, wiry fur of Thorin’s belly.

Thorin lay still upon him, a heavy immovable weight, seeming almost as if he had died at the moment of his climax, his cock softening and his seed seeping from Bilbo’s body to cool upon his thighs. His hand stirred, his fingers loosening their grasp upon Bilbo’s, and Bilbo felt the familiar sensation as of pins and needles prickling him as the blood flowed back into his fingers. 

“Leave me my hand,” Bilbo insisted, but the spell was gone-- he was only himself again, and Thorin’s eyes were remote and hard as he sought the key amidst the tumbled bedding. He replaced the shackle on Bilbo’s wrist, then rose and swabbed at his belly with Bilbo’s abandoned breeches, cleaning himself with casual haste. 

“I have a kingdom to mind, thief. You will wait.” Thorin tossed the breeches aside and called for an aide to help him into his armor, leaving Bilbo humiliated and exposed upon the bed, unable to do more than close his thighs and turn his lower body in an attempt to cover his shame. He was grateful when the dwarf who answered Thorin’s call was a stranger, not one of the company.

After the door closed behind them, he was left to stare up into the shadows as the torches slowly burned down, his body stiffening gradually with chill, his bound hands useless. The Ring weighed heavily atop his collarbone, a warm weight that seemed to pulse in time with his heart. It sang sweetly-- of dominion over Thorin, of ways to tame and punish him, ways to bring him to heel. Bilbo licked his lips, his thighs quivering. He had slowly come to hear and recognize that fell voice as the days passed since he left the Shire. It was stronger now, louder, yet it twined eerily with his own will, as if it were part of him.

Bilbo set his jaw. It had always brought him luck; it had kept him alive many times when he should have died. He would just have to rely on it again and hope for the best.

He did not know how much time passed; he drowsed from time to time, listening to the unearthly singing of the Ring, its voice sweet as treacle.

The opening door roused him. Bilbo stiffened, trying to bolt upright, but the restraint stopped him, rattling against the bedpost.

“It’s me,” Ori’s precise tones made him sink back onto the bed, at first in relief, then shrinking with embarrassment as Ori appeared, lifting a small lantern, blushing to look on Bilbo in his undressed state. 

“I would have come earlier, but I couldn’t.” Ori peered at Bilbo, anxious. “I’m sorry. He’s always watching now.” He set the lantern aside and patted at his pockets, delving into one. “I don’t think it’s right, what he’s done.” He pulled out his hand, a rough iron key hanging from a leather thong. “I stayed when some of the others went. I thought you would need help.”

“Thank you, Ori,” Bilbo breathed as Ori unlocked him, freeing his wrists. Bilbo dragged the dusty coverlet over his lap, then rubbed his sore arms. Ori retrieved his belt and breeches from the floor, blushing bright red as he folded them neatly over his arm before offering them like a valet.

Bilbo dressed in haste, ignoring the soreness of his body, compulsively checking to be sure he still had his Ring when he had finished.

“It won’t be safe for you with Thorin after I’ve gone.”

“It wasn’t safe before. You’d best hurry.” Ori took up his lantern and went to the door, checking the hall with caution before leading Bilbo out. “I can take you to the elves. They’ve encamped in the sixth hall. I don’t know where the others went.” He pattered off, leaving Bilbo to slip on the Ring and follow invisibly in his wake. 

Ori stopped well back from the great hall, but Bilbo could hear clear Elvish voices. He slid his finger out of the Ring’s circle so Ori could see him. “Ori, come with me.”

“I can’t. I have to stay with Nori.” Ori began to back away, apologetic. “Thorin will punish him if he misses me.” The thought alarmed him and he turned to scamper back the way he had come.

Bilbo hesitated, glancing back toward the elves, torn with indecision-- then jammed his finger through the Ring and silently followed Ori right back into the darkness: back toward Thorin.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli and Balin try to parley and Thorin consults his allies.

Gandalf rapped his staff lightly on on the floor outside the alcove, giving Legolas and Gimli a few moments’ warning before putting his head in. “You had best be joining us right away,” he said, sounding a little gruff, but his eyes twinkled. He left them to scramble out from under their concealing blankets and make themselves presentable, which they did with all haste, stepping in a little awkwardly to join the others. Gimli was still re-braiding his _o’fih_ when they went in, moving it to a new place beneath his ear, where it united two braids that melded into one: a statement that he was now claimed by his One. 

Glóin did not look directly at Gimli, clearing his throat and directing his gaze anywhere he possibly could other than at his son. By contrast, Dwalin stared Gimli right in the eye, raised a brow, and gave him a sly little hmph. Gimli winced. Dwalin would have more to say, he could tell-- probably ribald, judging by the gleam in his eye.

“Our plans have ripened as we rested,” Gandalf announced. “I can hear the rumor of dwarves in the stone, and I guess the armies of the Blue Mountains draw nigh. I would send our dwarves out to meet them, with the goal of persuading them to oppose Thorin rather than joining him.”

“Aye, that should be manageable,” Balin muttered, but his expression was not a happy one. “All we must do is convince them he has allied with Mordor and directed Durin’s Bane to attack a kinsman. In terms of dwarves, Thorin has little force of arms to speak of, especially since Dain’s forces are delayed. This will be critical in preventing him from rising to power as--” he stopped, then sighed. “As a lieutenant of Mordor.” He glanced up, defiant. “I’m only saying what we’re all thinking by now,” he snapped.

Dwalin winced to hear their treasonous plan so bluntly put, but he set his hand on Balin’s shoulder and nodded reluctant assent. “Gimli must be one of our party. Look at his armor. The marks of the thing’s whip are still plain to see. He still carries his melted axe among his gear; he must bring it as well. That will convince many without need for tiresome arguments.”

Legolas swiftly drew breath to speak, but Gandalf was faster. “Legolas may not accompany you,” he said, neatly cutting him off. “Nothing would turn the dwarves of the Ered Luin aside from our purpose faster than to bring an elf to this parley, I am afraid. They will have to fight alongside the eldar soon enough, but I think it best not to make that condition of their agreement apparent from the beginning.”

Legolas’s face pinched with unhappiness, but he nodded assent, reaching for Gimli’s hand. Gimli squeezed it tightly. The elf had been right; last night might be their only time together. He would not trade it for nights with a thousand others.

He gathered his things and made ready for travel. There was no need for speech; he and Legolas had spoken all the love that was needed with that simple clasp of hands, but when he was ready he turned his face up to receive his One’s kiss, and Legolas gave it, pressing their cheeks together afterward and embracing him.

“Go with the blessings of Elbereth and Aulë on you,” Legolas whispered. “Return to me whole and safe, _meleth_.”

Gimli swallowed hard and nodded. “And you, _âzyungel_.” 

Sparing a last, reluctant glance back at Legolas, he set forth with the others, following Balin’s lead. “We should be able to cut across and intercept them on Durin’s Way,” Dwalin said. 

“Have they a map?” 

“Thorin sent them one, aye.” Dwalin nodded. “With that path marked as to the broadest, swiftest way. We must meet them before they can join him.”

They hurried, loping along speedily in the dim, descending quickly to forge level using the chutes and then running single file. A few knots of goblin sentries briefly hindered them, but Gimli guessed the main bulk of the forces were behind them now, harrying the elves in the upper halls. 

“Thorin has ordered the goblin armies to let the dwarves pass,” Balin said, making a face as if he had bitten something very sour. “Else we would find our way choked with foes.”

They soon reached Durin’s Way, near to the forges yet not so close as to be troubled by the great burning in the charcoal stores. 

“Have we beaten them?” Gimli glanced both ways along the corridor.

“You have the youngest ears. Listen and read the echoes,” Balin told him.

He lay on the stone and let it speak into his ear, closing his eyes and covering the other to concentrate. It was not hard to hear the rumor of marching soldiers. “They are yet west of us. They should draw near soon.” 

“Good.” Dwalin drew himself up. “Stand by me, Gimli, with your father at your side. Tell them not of the elves until we must. Say only that you were with Mithrandir and a group of other warriors who sought to oppose the works of Mordor, and that we took you from them thinking it right you join your kin, but seeing Thorin’s folly closely you escaped, and in his wrath Thorin set Durin’s Bane on you all. Then we too saw Thorin’s madness had gone so far it could not be tolerated, and left him to join your company.”

It was true enough, and Gimli agreed, but he felt a pang of disloyalty to Legolas and the lady of Lothlórien nonetheless.

“Let me bring the elves into it,” Balin muttered. “I’ll judge when it can best be done-- or when it can no longer be avoided. Leave it to the lot of you, and we’ll bugger it up straight away.”

“Here they come,” Gimli said, hearing the ringing of iron-shod boots echoing down the corridor. They drew themselves up and waited as the scouts rounded the nearest turn, axes in hand.

*****

Ori scuttled along the passageways in haste, taking the quickest route back to the others. Bilbo found himself hard pressed to follow, at times running flat out, hoping he would not be heard. He slowed as he heard voices, making a cautious entry into the next hall some distance behind Ori, who made a hasty obeisance before the throne and remained there, kneeling. Bilbo concealed himself behind a pillar and slid off the Ring, which would not hide him from the king’s eyes. He watched the scene play out upon a mirror, unwilling to let Thorin see him.

Thorin sat silent on his improvised throne, drumming his fingers on the carved stone, deep in brooding thought. Nori stood near, just far enough back to be mostly out of the king’s sight, not a good sign. As a barometer of Thorin’s moods, Nori had always been infallible.

“What news of the others?”

“No sign of Dain’s troops, sire. The signals say the legions from the Blue Mountains will arrive in an hour.”

Thorin scowled. “And our missing dwarves?” His voice sharpened.

“They are not to be found.” Ori barely whispered the words, bending his head low. 

Thorin rested his chin on his left hand, scowling down at his lap, staring hard at the ring he wore on his right forefinger. “Dwalin would not leave me,” he muttered but his voice lacked conviction. “I should ask--” his voice trailed away, and he snarled without seeming to realize. Ori drew aside, one careful step, then another, moving toward Nori in gradual stages. 

“You should ask Bilbo,” Nori said, voice sharp with knowing.

Thorin surged to his feet, grasping at an empty goblet and hurling it through the air where Nori had stood; he stepped aside with agile grace, letting it clatter against the wall. 

“He would not advise me!” The roar broke and descended to a husk. “Not since Dale.” He began to pace, scowling. “And surely not now.” 

Bilbo’s heart raced, his throat thick with regret, but he dared not step out of the shadows.

A clatter of running feet heralded the arrival of Frár, gasping and panting so hard he could barely speak.

“Disaster, my king,” he managed to gasp, bending to clutch his thighs as he heaved for breath. “The dwarves of the Ered Luin have turned aside!”

“What?” Thorin thundered, drawing himself to his full four feet and ten inches of fury. 

“I went to meet them as ordered, but they told me to begone; they would not meet my embassy. Balin and Dwalin march at their front, and Gimli! They mean to detour around us; they will join the wizard!”

Thorin snarled, baring his teeth-- a wolf cornered and at bay, driven to extremity. But matters were not yet arrived at their worst. Even as he scowled down on Frár, the air grew chill. Bilbo shuddered, drawing his arms tightly around himself, and his eyes darted for the door, but it was too late to creep out.

A hissing, bitter whisper filled the chamber, and Bilbo felt every hair on his head stand on end; his throat and mouth dried out and he could not swallow. 

“Oakensssshield. Our bargain musssssst be met. The trinket…. My massssssster will have it, and itssss bearer!”

“The halfling was not part of the bargain.” Thorin’s voice could not match the wraith’s for pure chill, though he tried. 

“You will deliver him nonethelessssssss, and the little Ring itssssssself. Or your giftsssssss will be ssssssstripped from you!” The messenger gave a horrible, gleeful cackle that caterwauled up and down the scale like a badly-bowed fiddle. 

Bilbo clutched his ears, but could not shut out the horrible rasping voice, or the cold horror that scraped his nerves. The Ring hung heavily, dragging his head down, its chain sawing at his neck with every shudder of his small body. He clasped it in one fist, desperate to still it, and the nazgûl hissed again, lifting its head to scent the air, visible to him in the shadow that loomed on the wall. The sounds of its sniffing and snuffling drew near him, and a rustling as of grave-cloths over bone. 

Bilbo stared straight ahead, only half-seeing the stone wall; the Ring sang to him, a siren’s promise. All he had to do was put his finger through its circle, it said, and he would be safe. He knew better, yet his finger moved. He dropped his gaze to stare incuriously at it, moving as though it belonged to someone else entirely, obeying a command that was not his own. He struggled to breathe, his chest frozen between ice and fire, the muscles seizing.

“I keep my bargains even if your master does not!” Thorin snarled, and the sniffing stopped abruptly, just short of Bilbo’s hiding place. “Go to the top of the endless stair, as we agreed. Only there will I deliver your precious trinket!”

“You will come to the appointed ssssssspot as agreed and yield him up, or we will enter your mountain and bear your prissssssoner to Mordor without your aid,” the nazgûl hissed, glee in its foul voice. “If you do not deliver him, you will be left to the balrog, and much good will your ringsssss do you without my masssster’s aid!”

The nazgûl faded away into shadows, and the chill of fear slowly dissipated in its wake. Bilbo slumped with relief.

“What will you do now, my king?” Nori was first to recover his composure, and with it, his gadfly wit. “I have been to your bedchamber: the shackles lie empty. You have neither burglar nor Ring to deliver up!”

“I still have Dáin and his troops coming to support me,” Thorin snarled, his face contorted, barely in control of himself. “We will go and join him before the wizard can spill poison in his ear! My bargain is yet in force. Before it can shatter, we will drive Durin’s Bane forth upon the accursed elves. After that, there will be enough of us to defeat the orcs that remain-- and seeing it, our kin from the Ered Luin will join us, as well.” He wrung his hands, the gesture betraying uncertainty despite the confidence in his tone. 

“And the wraiths? How will you defeat them?”

Thorin snarled again. This time he flung a bottle at Nori, who ducked it, flinging up a hand to catch the glass bauble, then drank the last of the wine and set it aside on the floor with a clink that echoed in the dead air.

“Gather our remaining dwarves. We march east to join with Dáin,” Thorin ordered, and Ori scampered away to obey, so flustered he never thought of looking aside to where Bilbo crouched behind his pillar. 

“You thought the death of Bolg and Azog meant there would be no captain to rule the evil creatures in Moria,” Bilbo muttered to himself, almost feeling sorry for Thorin. “But now you have made yourself that captain, with no choice but to serve Sauron in their place.” 

Bilbo crept out behind the party and followed the dwarves at a cautious distance as they headed east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _o’fih_ : art of the bead  
>  _meleth_ : love  
>  _âzyungel_ : love of loves


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo carries word of Thorin's plans to the elves.

Instead of finding and joining with Dáin’s troops as he had hoped, Thorin swiftly learned that the army of Lothlórien blocked his way, preventing any other army from entering the mines-- and preventing him from leaving. His scathing torrent of Khuzdul left Bilbo none the wiser, but the bitter tone made his ears burn. He ducked desperately for an antechamber as Thorin’s small party turned away, not sure whether dwarvish night vision could find him even if he put on the Ring. Even if the Ring hid him, the dwarves’ sharp eyes could almost certainly perceive the heat left behind by his hands or feet, should they bother to search. 

They passed him, muttering among themselves, and Bilbo hesitated. Common sense warned him to seek out the elves; they were most likely able to protect him from the ringwraiths when they returned. 

His heart heavy, he turned his steps toward the elves, lifting his hands and greeting the sentries in his poor Sindarin as he stepped into the cavern and was taken captive, then whisked before their leaders for disposition.

He soon found himself standing at the feet of Galadriel, her long, flowing golden hair bound up in braids beneath an elegant helm, her piercing blue eyes regarding him with surprise.

“Mister Baggins,” she greeted him. “I regret finding you here, and yet I am relieved you are whole.”

Bilbo nodded and bowed with hasty politeness, glad to find someone he had previously met in charge of the forces here. It should smooth the way. “Well met, Lady of Lórien. I apologize for my rudeness, but there is need for haste. Can you take me before Gandalf, please? I have information he needs.”

“He is further within the mines and cannot be found.” She glanced aside. “Have wine and food brought for the halfling; he has suffered much.”

Bilbo flushed, wondering how much she guessed-- or knew. He glanced at her finger, perceiving the gleam of silver there, then politely turned his gaze upward, swallowing hard and setting his jaw. “Thank you.” He hesitated, wondering if he could bear to betray Thorin once again. But he must.

Galadriel waited, patient, not pressing him, her eyes gentle with sympathy.

“Thorin is caught in a cleft stick of his own making,” Bilbo dropped his gaze, the words pulled from as if by force. “He has promised me to Sauron, but he cannot deliver what he does not have. If he fails to do as the ringwraiths demand, then his power over the evil creatures here will fail and the balrog will have its way with any who oppose it while the nazgûl drag him to Mordor for questioning and torment. He means to climb the endless stair to meet them as they command. There, I think, he hopes for a miracle such as the one that rid him of the dragon.” 

Bilbo swallowed, pressing his hand over his belly in a futile attempt to calm it. “If his kin seek to join him, and in so doing force out the orcs, and if the elves draw the balrog’s wrath on themselves, if they rout the wraiths…. His last hope is for his foes to defeat one another and leave him victorious.” He deflated, miserable, his guts clenching so hard he thought he would vomit.

“If I have doomed him by telling you this,” he whispered, “then the only solace I have is knowing he would surely have delivered me to them, in his extremity.”

Galadriel reached and took his hand. “Thorin Oakenshield has made the decisions that create his own doom. You have had less part in determining the nature of that doom than you think. Console yourself with this, Bilbo Baggins: the measure of a choice is whether you would make that same choice again, knowing its cost. You have made the right one, I think, though the price is high.” 

An elf arrived with wine and food, and Galadriel stepped aside as he delivered it to Bilbo, conferring quietly with an adviser. “We will not change course or abandon our allies now,” he heard her say. “I would not yield victory to Sauron without offering battle, now least of all. If we falter here, the cost will be all the higher when we are finally pressed to fight.”

“Lady, Mithrandir has come!” Another messenger arrived, moving in haste. “An army of dwarves is coming from the west, and he wishes to confer.”

Bilbo snatched up the waybread and dried meat he had been offered, stuffing them in his pack, and hurried after Galadriel as she swept out. An army of dwarves, an army of elves, hordes of orcs… all that was missing were the Lake-Men! 

He could not keep up with the elves, but did not fall so far behind that he lost the trail, emerging soon into a wide cavern where Gandalf stood with their comrades.

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf interrupted his counsel with Galadriel, hurrying over to greet the hobbit. “I am relieved to find you here! The lady has delivered your news.” He drew Bilbo along as he returned to the group. “I’ve dispatched our dwarves, including several who abandoned the company of Thorin after seeing the depth of his folly, to meet the army of Ered Luin. I have faith in their persuasive ability, and I trust we will find allies there rather than foes.”

“My own folk hold a second dwarf army at bay,” Galadriel revealed. “Dáin of the Iron Hills leads a great host to Thorin’s aid. We have them halted by the Silverlode, but his folk are hardy, and will soon scale the mountains to the gate and evade us.”

“At this rate, our battle may be over before they arrive.” Gandalf tilted his head back, frowning. “They are unlikely to raise arms against a force that includes their own kin from the west. Send a messenger to Dáin with this news.”

“Dáin will require proof of such an alliance.” Her clear voice was not loud, but it carried throughout the chamber nonetheless.

“And we have it,” a voice boomed. Turning, they beheld Balin standing proudly by the opening of a broad highway. Hundreds of dwarves marched behind him, bristling with weapons.

“Gandalf!” Balin stepped forward, jovial. “I will go myself to assure Dáin.” Behind him stood Dwalin, Gimli, Óin, and Glóin, forming the first rank of the army.

“Balin!” Gandalf beamed, welcoming the dwarves with open arms. “Just who we needed to see. We have been planning our strategy. Come and join us!”

Balin gestured to the waiting ranks of dwarves, who set their axe-hafts on the stone with a solid thud, a slow ripple of sound that lasted for many long seconds, fading gradually as ran after rank followed suit. They stared at the elves with dislike, standing their ground with stony faces.

A sixth dwarf aso stood amidst the leaders, and Bilbo gasped at the sight of familiar Durin features: coarse, waving dark hair streaked with gray, a heavy brow and straight nose, steady burning eyes and a grim mouth. Like Thorin’s, the beard was kept short and well-combed, but unlike Thorin, this dwarf bore a multitude of braids tipped with simple iron clasps, and plain, well-made armor with little ornamentation.

“Lady Dís.” Gandalf bowed low. “May I congratulate you on your wisdom in joining your force to ours?”

She regarded him with a stare so flat and unblinking as to be almost reptilian in its hostility. “I remember my grandfather, and I trust the words of my cousins.” There was no fondness or warmth in her voice. “As well, I remember who inflamed Thorin’s desire to retake Erebor, a course I earnestly discouraged.”

“Ah, well.” Gandalf cleared his throat, abashed. “Hindsight has shown it was perhaps a rather unfortunate choice in some aspects, yes. And yet, in others, it may prove grounds for our greatest hope of victory against the east.”

“Where is my brother?” Dís stepped forward, solid and stubborn. “I would try to reason with him. At least I will reclaim my son from this folly.”

Behind her Dwalin and Balin exchanged worried looks, but remained silent. 

“We are endeavoring to ascertain exactly that,” Gandalf hedged, but a horrible, grating roar echoed through the chamber before he could speak further.

“Durin’s Bane,” Glóin muttered, reaching for his axe.

“It is on the Endless Stair,” Gandalf lifted his head, gaze seeking as though he could see through stone. “Thorin’s choices draw near their inevitable end.” His glance flicked to Bilbo, who stared at him, his small face twisted with anxiousness-- a fear mingled with iron-hard resolve. 

“We will not leave him to face it alone,” he stated flatly, his voice quavering once, then firming. 

“Lead us to my brother and my son, wizard,” Dís agreed, and the lady of Lórien concurred with a nod.

Gandalf sighed, gathering the Fellowship to him with a gesture. “Let us make haste, then. My ladies, your troops will not all fit on the stair. I suggest a hand-picked band of twenty at most from each race in the fire, with others climbing behind and a large vanguard left here to defend the stair against our foes, then fight their way out, should our venture fail.”

The troops readied themselves swiftly, and Galadriel kissed Celeborn farewell before joining the group. She bore no weapon other than a single slender sword. “It would not be of use. Let others bear arms. My fight will be a battle of the mind,” she said when Gandalf frowned at her, and he sighed and nodded. 

“Bilbo,” he began, but Bilbo was already shaking his head. 

“Nobody could protect me better than the two of you. Besides, I refuse to stay here.” He swallowed hard, clutching at his shirt where the Ring lay hidden. “Not if I might help Thorin and the others.”

Gandalf acquiesced with a half-bow. “Then let us go. The stair is a long climb, and we must pace ourselves. There will be battle at the top, and no chance for rest before it begins.”


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins atop Zirak-Zigil. 
> 
> Warning: Some violence and gore, which will escalate as the battle proceeds.
> 
> There will be 6 installments of battle including this chapter. Some parts will repeat segments of the battle from the point of view of different characters. I originally outlined the thing for there to be ten, but the natural pacing of the last few pieces did not agree with me. X-D (I'm actually glad because this was the very devil to write!)

Legolas had no fear for his own people, who could race upstairs all day long and never seem winded, but he knew the dwarves and especially humans would be wearied in climbing. The peak of Zirak-Zigil stood very tall, one of the highest among the Misty Mountains. At his side, Gimli sighed, gritted his teeth, and began to trot up the stair.

Everywhere marks of the balrog’s passage remained to dismay them: protruding corners of masonry had melted to slag as it thrust past. As they began the climb, some of the melted edges still glowed cherry-red with heat. A choking fume filled the air, and black ash rose in a cloud about their feet. When they rounded a bend and climbed into a long vertical chamber with a rough spiral carved around its edges, Legolas could see its ugly red flame climbing far far above. It would reach the top long before they could. 

Nearby, Dís seemed to reach the same conclusion. She growled low in her throat and doubled her pace, leading the dwarves in their charge. Fortunately the steps were made for dwarvish feet and knees, shallow-cut and short; the men and elves labored with care to tread without falling on steps they found unnaturally short and awkward, for there was no rail on the outer edge of the stair and nothing to grasp on the smooth inner wall, either. The dwarves hurried ahead, outpacing the others for a time.

Legolas approved Gimli’s wisdom as he chose to take it slower, conserving his strength for the fight that would follow when they reached the top-- and after a while the leading elves caught up to the dwarves, who had begun to flag a bit. Gandalf sighed, but did not speak. He stepped past Dís and put himself at the fore, setting a pace all could keep. 

As they ventured higher the mountain began to shake as though a great lightning storm raged outside, shivering the very stone with its thunder. 

Legolas, whose turn it was to carry Bilbo, caught Gimli’s eye and gave him a faint smile that spoke of regret for the coming battle, but also of peace and contentment in having found and confirmed their place together. Gimli huffed a wordless response, and Legolas smiled on him. The look in his eyes almost as good as a touch of hands or lips.

Gandalf stopped them at last on a broad landing. Ice, shining red like blood under a wavering, fitful light from without, crusted the few steps at its end, and bitter cold air billowed in, carrying snow and making sweat threaten to crust to ice in clothes and on faces. 

Legolas could hear Thorin’s voice, but could not make out the words. He touched Gimli’s shoulder, and his friend reached to bar Dís’s way, seeing that she meant to keep going. 

“Wait for the wizard,” Gimli advised, ignoring her scowl. Gandalf inclined his head to Galadriel, who murmured to him. Then the two squared themselves and marched forward side by side toward the end of the landing. Gandalf lifted his staff and the ice on the last stairs turned liquid and flowed away, leaving steaming stone in its wake.

“Dís, set two of your folk to guard the stairwell. Galadriel and I will do as much as we may to manage the balrog and the nazgûl,” he said quietly over his shoulder. “Lady Dís, you must try to reach Thorin’s wits-- or stop him. Let mortal soldiers fight mortal foes, if there are any to be had. Elves, let us face the spawn of evil together. Glorfindel, come behind me. Aragorn, I charge you to lead our retreat if Galadriel and I fall. You and Bilbo Baggins at least must survive this to take up the quest. Bilbo….” Gandalf fixed the hobbit with a stern look. “Stay in here, out of the way, and do not put on the Ring! The quest is too important for you to take unnecessary risks in battle.”

Bilbo stared at him without flinching, lifting his chin, but did not answer. After a moment Gandalf turned, sighing. “My lady of Lórien, we will follow you. I will come next in line and face the balrog.” He settled his hat on his head and gestured to Galadriel to lead them up.

Bitter wind buffeted them as they emerged, carrying fragments of ice that glowed dark red and stung like sparks. Legolas blinked them away, guiding Gimli with a soft touch on his shoulder when he might have stumbled. 

The mountaintop soared above them, the sharp, needle-peak lost in a boiling mass of gray clouds. Upon it crouched the balrog, silhouetted against the sky, its flames drowned in shadow and dark wings folded, its claws dug into a steaming sheet of icy stone. Only the faintest hint of gray light showed far to the east, where the sun was still many minutes from rising. Thorin stood before the peak, chanting, and despite himself, Legolas felt a chill shudder its way down his spine. Dark patches of evil stood ranged ranged around the spiral, felt rather than seen, until metal scraped as the wraiths drew blades that flickered pale and cold like marsh-fire. 

“They have come,” Thorin intoned, his deep voice resonant as he lifted his hand, pointing-- straight toward where Bilbo crouched at the verge of the portal so he could see. The little hobbit stood firm, lifting his chin and setting his feet. His hand slid over to rest on the hilt of his little sword. 

“As I promised. There is your thief!” Thorin’s voice rose to a scream.

Snow sifted down heavily from the ebony sky, sizzling as it landed on the balrog’s hide. Galadriel stepped forward, placing herself between Bilbo and the nazgûl. She seemed to draw all the available light to her, white dress shining even brighter than the pale snow, a few windblown flakes catching in her hair. 

“Be gone, servants of darkness. You will not prevail against the powers gathered here.” Galadriel raised her hand, and as she did, brightness flared and shone about her as if a star had flown down from the firmament and settled in her hand. 

Terrible shadows stretched long and dark behind all the figures atop the hill; the wraths quailed for a moment, then came on. The balrog flapped its wings, sending black smoke and bitter crystals of snow driving into Legolas’s eyes. 

The wraiths stepped forward in unison, as though answering an unseen signal. Their cowls all turned as their attention focused directly on Bilbo. At Gandalf’s signal, ranks of elves and dwarves closed in, forming a barrier between the nazgûl and the halfling. 

“’Ware orcs!” Legolas shouted, spying rough helms appearing from the precipice, where a horde of the foul creatures busily swarmed up the peak to flank them. The archers drew, their bows singing, and orcs shrieked as they fell. 

A horrible shriek drew Legolas’s gaze: not the nazgûl themselves, but some sort of huge, flying drakes, their batlike wings eclipsing the stars as they stooped and their riders mounted. “Save your arrows for where they will matter most!” Legolas shouted over the ring of a hundred orcs drawing their blades. Galadriel swung her slender arm, forcing back the leading nazgûl. “There are foes in the air! Fell beasts of Sauron!” 

Light exploded through the air as the nazgûl and Galadriel clashed, and the creatures of darkness quailed from it-- but it also spoiled the night vision of the mortals, and they faltered. 

Only two of the wraiths remained afoot as it faded: The Witch King and Khamul, who fixed the fathomless depths of his hood on Legolas and glided forward.

“To me, Greenleaf!” Galadriel called. “Set our backs together. The wraiths are full of tricks and move faster than we can follow.”

Legolas leaped to obey, jumping over rubble and dodging orc arrows until he stood at Galadriel’s back. The wraiths closed on them in terrible silence, jagged blades gleaming like oil. Legolas lunged at Khamul, but his blade passed right through the wraith and it shivered itself apart, re-forming at his side and driving its sword toward his undefended side. Galadriel whispered spells and Legolas swung left, taking a bone-shivering stroke from the Witch King, who hissed thin, scratchy laughter at him. 

“Do not let their blades touch you,” Galadriel warned. “Or you will be fatally wounded, and in dying, will become a lesser wraith yourself.”

“Yes, my lady.” Legolas had little time for courteous speech, circling with her, working to keep a barricade of flying steel between them and their foes. He realized she held blade now, no thing of base iron or steel. Rather she fought with a blade of light, which cast a pure white glow across the battlefield. 

Screams erupted around them as combatants from both sides fell to the blades of their enemies, and choking black smoke rolled from the balrog’s hide, its sulfurous stench threatening to choke the breath right out of Legolas’s lungs. 

“How do we harm them?” For a second time Legolas’s sword passed right through Khamul, failing to injure him.

“That is up to me,” she said, and ducked the Witch King once more, summoning a ball of white light in her hand and casting it aloft. The flying nazgûl screamed, wheeling and drawing off; Legolas could see that no elf-arrows pierced their thick hide. Instead they rebounded, falling scattered. Arrows passed right through the nazgûl, never hindering them.

“Sling your bows! Draw your blades and fight!” Legolas shouted as he spun, sliding out a knife with one hand and driving it through an orc’s throat. Haldir stepped near, finishing the beast with a savage stab between its shoulder blades, his blond hair flying. 

“Draw blades!” Haldir picked up Legolas’s cry. “Save your arrows!” He spun, avoiding an orc’s spear, and took the thing’s head with a sweeping blow.

Legolas caught motion from the corner of his eye and barely ducked the Witch King’s sword as it darted past Galadriel’s shoulder, seeking him; the brush of cold metal made his skin crawl. 

“You will not live long enough to see the dwarf die,” Khamul hissed, gloating. “And he _will_ die, elf-- in a handful of days, less than a year by the reckoning your kind. If you and he should survive this day, you will watch him wither. You will soon fade and sail in grief. You will find no respite beyond the sea. Sauron’s might will know no bounds. I will take you there, when you are so drowned in grief you do not care to fight.”

Legolas snarled. “My griefs are none of your concern, wraith!” He could see the spectacle of Gimli, his fiery beard faded to pure white, lying sunken and cold on a bier; it chilled his very soul. Grimacing, he stabbed straight through Khamul’s chest. The wraith shivered away, reforming to renew his attack.

Fell beasts swooped, their claws catching elves and tossing them over the edge of the precipice; mortal warriors cringed from their approach, some few of them swooning senseless to the stone as the black breath of the nazgûl and their pets overwhelmed them. Legolas shielded his face with one arm; the backwash of their wings whipped up ash and cinders to sting his skin. One lodged in Legolas’s eye, making it run; he set his jaw and kept fighting, circling to face the Witch King, then again to Khamul. Galadriel was chanting, a low hum that resonated through the very stone; he could sense the light growing in her, veiled as yet, but nearly ripe for the wielding.

“You will die now, elf-hag,” the wraith taunted her. His cowl fell back, revealing a pale and wasted face, hardly more than the illusion of skin over a skull. He wore a tall, jagged crown that shone with a sickly light, and he raised his blade high overhead, preparing to drive it through her. 

“You are mistaken.” Galadriel raised her hand, white lightning flaring from her fingertips. She stood tall and terrible, her long hair streaming out from her head, white light pouring through her, intersecting the sickly greenish yellow of the wraith’s magic and driving it back, slow step after slow step. 

Legolas’s blade flashed bright with reflected light, and he lunged at Khamul. The wraith screamed and shuddered away-- but reformed atop its mount and launched for the sky, clutching at its breast. “They can be hurt!” Legolas shouted. “Strike while the Lady holds them with her magic!” The elves echoed his shout, striking the flats of their swords on their shields in triumph as the nazgûl screeched and wheeled.


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle continues. 
> 
> Warning: Some violence and gore, which will escalate as the battle proceeds.

Shoulder to shoulder, Gimli and Dís led the dwarven charge from the endless stair, bursting out into the cold in a brutal wave of iron shields and axes. The dwarves remained stout, far less winded than the humans in the rear guard behind them; they were carved from the stone of this mountain and would not flag or fail as long as it bore them up, a solid foundation beneath their feet. 

Undeterred, the wraiths swung, flinging elves and dwarves out of their path with savage force. Many members of both races toppled wailing over the unguarded edge of the cliff. Gandalf lifted his staff and a pulse of white light exploded against the balrog’s chest, making it scream and rear. A bolt of lightning stabbed down and struck the beast, all but blinding Gimli; he stumbled against the stone of the central peak. The balrog’s scream of rage shook the mountain and sent bounders and torrents of snow crashing down the mountainside. On every side blades clashed and screams rang out.

The only thing Gimli could see beneath the smoke were Galadriel’s feet, pale and bare as she stepped forward through the snow. Then a gust of wind cleared the air as Gandalf thrust forward with his sword, driving back a wraith; Galadriel swung her hand and the force of her will drove aside another. 

Gimli stumbled over a dwarf and did not know if he was friend or foe; he lay insensible on the ground, a patch of red spreading beneath his helm. Gimli mourned regardless, stepping over the wounded dwarf, and pressed onward. If he could reach Thorin, he might be able to-- his heart nearly quailed at the prospect. If he struck down Thorin, the balrog might falter for a moment, but it would not be thwarted. The beast would simply be released from any measure of control Thorin actually held over it.

Gimli looked to Dís, who ignored the chaos around them, her eyes fixed on Thorin. Gimli parried a troll’s mighty sweep, sparing her. The stroke drove him to one knee. She did not seem to understand the only way they might win was by destroying the evils that beset them. Of those, Thorin was perhaps the least.

Thorin’s voice echoed amidst the spikes of rock and hissing shrieks skirled up through the thin air, making the very snowflakes seem to vibrate as they fell-- indistinguishable from stinging cinders that bit at Gimli’s skin. He ignored them, swinging with desperation. The foes arrayed against them were too many; too strong-- this would be another Azanulbizar. Outnumbered and desperate, fighting for their lives more than their home.

“To me!” Gimli shouted in Khuzdul, desperate to rally his force before they were swept apart and forced over the precipitous edge. “Foes of Sauron, to me!”

Amidst the terrible smoke of the balrog and the chill blackness of the wraiths, a sudden light shone white, like the flash of a day-bright star.

“The Lady,” Gimli whispered. She stood slim and tall, her arms outstretched against the wraiths, who encircled her, hissing and darting. Beyond them, Gandalf stood against the balrog. Elves stood back, tormenting the beast with volley after volley of arrows.

“Bilbo stands at her feet,” Legolas answered, appearing from the fray, his white knives darting to cross and decapitate an orc, the foul dark blood spattering his fair face. 

“A safer place he could not find,” Gimli snarled, defending against many orcs at once with savage axe-strokes. Legolas darted away through the melee and Gimli fell in with Dwalin to defend Dís’s back. Together the three fought to avoid destruction as she pressed forward, inexorably seeking her brother. They could not make much progress; orcs swarmed up the mountainside, shod in spikes that let them climb amidst the ice, more and more pouring into the fray. 

“Thorin!” Dís shouted. “I will speak with you, Thorin Oakenshield! Call your shadowspawn to heel!”

Thorin’s head turned toward his sister; that much Gimli saw before a wraith slid between them. Then it was gone and Thorin’s back had turned; he stared up at the balrog, resolute.

Dís cursed, low like the rumble of shifting stone, then raised her voice, roaring so loudly the whole battlefield rang with the challenge. “I claim the kingship. Thorin Oakenshield has forfeited his right and allied himself with evil!”

A nazgûl wheeled, screaming; when its shadow lifted Thorin stood beneath it, silhouetted against the balrog’s fires. His eyes narrowed as he strode across the battle toward them.

“Traitors will be executed,” he snarled. “Regardless of name or blood!”

“I have no kin.” Dís spat through clenched teeth. “Come and fight me, thing of evil, and I will free what little remains of your soul for Mahal to judge!”

“You speak to me of judgment when you have allied yourself with elves and brought them to plunder my realm of its riches?” Orcrist flashed and met the steel-shod handle of Dís’s axe. “I will see you and the traitors who fight at your side dead, cast over the side to rot.” His eyes shone red in the light of the flames as he glowered toward Gimli and Dwalin. 

“If you will not listen, you will die. Your allies will leave you, Thorin Oakenshield, the only dwarf to fight beside Durin’s Bane. Thorin Oakenshield, shame of the Dwarves, our mother’s bleak dishonor! Accursed is the womb that bore us!” Spittle flew from Dís’s mouth; she pressed her attack, striking so heavily Orcrist nearly shivered from Thorin’s hand. Gimli pressed in at her side, trying to hook Thorin’s ankle behind the curve of his own axe-blade, but Thorin stepped away-- into the sweep of Dwalin’s massive stroke.

A wraith materialized, but Dwalin’s armor turned its cold, white blade, which skittered away without wounding him. Ori snarled, driving a knife at its foot; the knife turned and snapped on the thing’s steel-shod boot, but the distraction let Dwalin draw back to cover Dís’s side once more. They stood united before it as the fell beasts stooped, clawing and seizing dwarves and elves, then winging aloft and hurling them over the sides of the mountain. 

“And you. Gimli of no family, slave of elves-- turned the elf-prince’s willing whore! My minions have shown me your transgressions in full.” Thorin’s face twisted into a rictus of hate. “If there is a disgrace to the dwarves, it is you. Never has such a loathsome abomination been enacted by one of our people!”

Dís faltered, looking aside to Gimli, doubt writ large over her features-- and it nearly cost her life; an orc jabbed a long spear past Thorin and nearly took her, but Dwalin laid steel to it at the last instant, batting it away. 

“You would speak thus, who bartered me to the Elven-King and left me at his mercy?” Gimli snarled, a blazing coal of anger igniting in his breast. “False king, servant of the shadow, do not speak to me of abominations. For you do business with the nazgûl and with Durin’s Bane; you are truly a damned thing, lost in the folly of gold-sickness and pride!” He strode forward, pushing Thorin back; Dís firmed her chin and stepped in behind him-- as did Dwalin and the others, his father among them.

Thorin scowled and fell back before their wrath, glancing over his shoulder. “Smite them, you accursed devil,” he howled, his voice hardly recognizable.

A dark shape flashed under the stroke of Gimli’s axe-- Nori. Gimli flinched, but Nori turned, throwing a knife into the throat of an oncoming orc, its black blood spattering them all. “I fight for the new King-- the true King!” Nori shouted, touching his brow toward Dís. “To me, Dwarves of Moria! To me, my brother!”

Ori shoved through the crowd at Nori's heels, eyes wild and teeth bared, and Gimli opened ranks to admit their new allies. A handful of other Moria-dwarves followed, wall-eyed with fear. They turned to face the balrog despite it.

“Behind me, Ori,” Gimli snapped. The scribe had no weapon. “Arm yourself!” There was no shortage of dropped weapons on the ground. 

“We need no arms if I have this,” Nori chortled and plunged his hand into the collar of his tunic, drawing forth the Arkenstone. “For the beast was promised this gem as its reward, and it will not serve Thorin the Mad if he does not hold it!”

“I am surrounded by thieves and treachery!” Thorin snarled, foam flying from his lips. “A curse on the house of your fathers!”

“Truly then, you _are_ a curse on the line of Durin.” Dwalin spoke at last, stepping in front of Nori, solid as a wall. “A shame I will end.”

“You may try.” Thorin’s voice turned cold, but his eyes flamed hot with wrath at the dwarf who had once been his staunchest ally and dearest friend. “I will take back my treasure and your lifeless, desecrated bones will be dumped in a midden.”


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle continues. 
> 
> Warning: Please be aware that as the battle intensifies over this and the next few chapters, you should be prepared to see violence; gore and explicit depictions of battle injury including physical damage from conventional weapons, spiritual damage from dark magic, and disturbing images involving fire; confrontation between betrayer and betrayed; and possible character death.

Bilbo cowered in the shelter of the doorway, the stone so cold underfoot it penetrated the tough soles of his feet and made them ache fiercely. He hesitated, unwilling to remain within but unsure what he might accomplish if he went out. 

The Ring felt heavy on his chest, its chain biting into his neck as if the circlet of gold had begun pulling him forward toward the nazgûl. He braced himself against a stone, nails scraping at the rough surface; the pain helped to center him in his own body. Gandalf stood guard beside the portal, his staff uplifted to ward against the balrog. Glorfindel perched easily upon the ice at his side, sure-footed and strong, his hair whipped back by the swirling winds. 

“Come now, my comrades,” Glorfindel called over his shoulder, seeming almost fey in his battle-lust. “The battle is joined, and our foes press us hard. But we may yet turn the tide!” 

Aragorn and Ecthelion passed him side by side, blades drawn. Thengel hung back, setting a kind hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “There is no dishonor in remaining safe here. You guard the most powerful and terrible tool the enemy might ever hold against us-- far worse than the evils assembled without.” His eyes were fixed on the fray, reflecting the orange of flames. 

“I will not hang back while my friends die,” Bilbo’s voice quavered.

“Then stay near to the powerful-- those who may help you if your ventures go amiss.” Thengel grimaced, glancing down at last. “I fear I am not equal to those who stalk you, or I would offer my own sword solely in your defense.”

“A kind offer, but I fear you are right.” Bilbo glimpsed Thorin through the throng, and as he did, Thorin turned and spied him. 

“They have come,” Thorin intoned, his deep voice resonant as he lifted his hand, pointing-- straight toward where Bilbo crouched. Bilbo swallowed hard, shuffling his feet as if Thorin’s stare would overawe him and send him toppling backward down the terrible stair. He slid his hand to the hilt of his sword, clutching at it for courage. 

“As I promised. There is your thief!” Thorin’s voice rose to a scream. 

Galadriel stepped between them, breaking the glare that held Bilbo prisoner, trapped like a rabbit terrified beyond the capacity of motion. Suddenly giddy with relief, he darted forward, evading the swinging blades of orcs as they fought against elves-- their eyes were turned upward, and they took no note of his passing. He reached the Lady and stopped, thwarted; nazgûl gathered before her, slowly advancing. He could not reach Thorin-- and did not know what he would have done even if he could. 

The Ring burned like ice against his skin, its chill freezing his bones. Galadriel spoke, but he could make out no sound but the whispering hiss of the nazgûl-- of the leader, a pale king with a terrible iron crown piercing its skull with cruel spikes. 

HIs hand moved of its own accord, closing about the Ring; the singing whine of the nazgûl’s will pervaded his very bones, shivering him, moving his hand, one finger extended--

A flare of white light shocked through him, and he dropped the bright gold, swallowing hard. His heart pounded in his ears and he staggered, falling to his knees behind the lady. Legolas stepped forward, wielding a bright sword and struck away an orc who grasped at Bilbo’s ankle. 

“Go back to the stair,” Legolas commanded, but Bilbo ignored him; it was a struggle merely to draw breath, the will of the nazgûl beating at him like a wall of flame from every side. 

Thorin could stop this. He must. He must be made to see his own folly!

Bilbo dodged aside into the thick of the fray once more, slipping and sliding on a crust of fast-freezing blood. Removed from view of the nazgûl, he could breathe again; their will cast about, seeking him with implacable malice, but he was shadowed from it by his concealment. 

The voice of Dís rose above the fray, calling to Thorin; Bilbo approved her courage, but knew Thorin had gone beyond the rebuke of his kin; he knew it in his blood-- for he was coming to understand the power that strove with Thorin; he now knew the fierce and merciless will of the ringwraiths battering at him, overcoming his control over his own body. He knew the siren call of the Ring. Reason could not prevail against the will of Sauron.

Bilbo slithered behind Gandalf’s ankles, gasping for breath; he scrabbled at his chest, relieved to find the Ring yet hanging from its chain there. 

The balrog roared, smoke and cinders fouling the bitter air. Its whip whined, tendrils of flame snapping dangerously close, but Bilbo was safe between the wizard and the stone-- as safe as it was possible to be; Aragorn and Ecthelion also stood near, their blades carving a swath through the orcs that sought to come at the wizard while his attention was taken by his terrible foe. 

“Servant of Morgoth, be gone from this place, or perish with your allies. I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. I banish you from this place!”

The balrog roared, its whip arcing back and snapping forward again, a deadly sizzling whine in the air. Gandalf’s staff flared white; lightning burst from the tip and struck the beast in the chest. 

“Do not let it recover!” Glorfindel sprinted forward. “You and I, Gandalf, will end this foul thing!” 

The balrog spread its wings and dropped from the height, its terrible feet crushing both friend and foe beneath their claws as it landed heavily, shuddering the entire peak. It raised its sword and swung the glowing metal striking Glamdring with a savage crash. Sparks flew, one catching in Bilbo’s jacket; he rolled, frantic, and extinguished it. Gandalf gasped and staggered back a half-step but remained upright. 

Glorfindel caught Thengel’s shoulder, parting his leather tunic to show a gleam of metal there. “I have brought chain wrapped about my body-- fine steel links, dwarf-made, that I found below. There is a stout pillar of mountain stone there, by Thorin, with rings set into it. Can you see them? I will affix the chain there. If we may tangle the balrog, we can hinder it and take our strikes at leisure!”

He darted away toward the pillar, shouting. “Foul fire demon, terror of the ancient world, I am Glorfindel. I have slain your like before, and tonight I shall do so again! Will you fight? Fight _me_ , fiend!”

“And I, _bealubroga_!” Thengel followed suit, waving his sword; his long yellow hair ablaze with foul red light. “My sword will taste your blood this night!”

“Fools,” Ecthelion muttered, but fell in behind Thengel, lifting his blade. “For Gondor!” he cried, and Aragorn echoed him, joining the charge.

It ignored them, bending all its might upon the wizard. Gandalf swung again, and Bilbo scrambled away as sparks fell. The wraiths were busy, occupied with Galadriel and Legolas; she held a blade of pure light, and he could sense their fear of it; in some strange, terrible way he shared in that fear, seeking the shadows of battle, the concealment of smoke. The Ring dragged at him, guiding him away from her in spite of all he could do; he lifted his feet to place them where he would, but they went into paths of the Ring’s choosing.

Glorfindel reached the pillar; the wheeling shades of fell-beasts crossed the battlefield between him and Bilbo. He swarmed up its side, locking the chain fast to hoops of iron set in the stone, still taunting the demon. 

Nori scuttled past Bilbo, who gasped and turned to follow. The dwarf clutched something against his breast, white light welling between his fingers. 

_The Arkenstone._ Bilbo knew it without question, and dreaded Nori’s fate when his theft was discovered. His feet drew him after the running dwarf, toward Gimli and the wraiths--

A horrible rending sound and a flash of light jerked his attention away, stopping him in his tracks. Molten metal clanged to the ground: the upper half of the balrog’s sword, sundered and melted, lay hissing in the snow.

“You shall not prevail!” Gandalf’s voice rang out, strong and triumphant. The balrog reeled back, tossing its head toward the sky, roaring its rage. It reached for its whip, staggering-- but then Glorfindel shot forward, winding between its ankles. 

Flame kindled in the elf’s yellow hair, yet he continued on-- crowned in gold and red, shouting aloud. “The Golden Flower, for the memory of Gondolin!” He dodged and darted in a circuit around and between its feet, too fleet to crush. The balrog tried to stamp on him and failed, teetering, the thongs of the whip arcing behind it, catching a fell-beast unawares and sending it careening across the sky in a gout of shrieking flame. 

An orc appeared before Bilbo, its teeth bared in a snarl, its rusting knife flashing at his throat, but the spectacle caught its attention. It wavered, eyes going wide with terror as the beast crashed against a neighboring peak and bounced away, tumbling into the ravine amidst a torrent of snow.

The wizard raised his staff with a mighty shout, and lightning flared from the four corners of the heavens, converging to race down the blades of the whip to the demon’s arm, twining it in sizzling purple-blue fire. It screamed, thrashing and kicking; Glorfindel rolled away from its flailing feet, and Thengel bent to beat the flames out of the elf’s hair with his cloak. The entire universe seemed to stand still as the balrog writhed amid the flare, open maw emitting a hiss like a thousand teakettles boiling over onto coals.

They pursued it to press their advantage, leaving Bilbo exposed-- he felt the eyes of the wraith touch him, and froze, cowering on the bloody ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _bealubroga_ : Rohirric for balrog; i. e. Anglo-Saxon for "baleful terror"
> 
> Thanks to Tumblr user katajainen for giving this chapter a read-through!


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle continues.
> 
> Warning: Please be aware that as the battle intensifies, you should be prepared to see violence; gore and explicit depictions of battle injury including physical damage from conventional weapons, spiritual damage from dark magic, and disturbing images involving fire; confrontation between betrayer and betrayed; and possible character death.

Dwalin plowed forward, shielding Nori behind his bulk, the implacable momentum of his anger buffeting Thorin back a step-- and then another; yet Thorin gave ground as one who saves his strength for sterner foes. 

“To me!” Thorin shouted, but the demon of fire did not answer, bedeviled by elves and men. Thorin scowled, parrying Dwalin’s warhammer with Orcrist. Though he gave no sign, the mighty blow must have all but shuddered the bones of his arm to fragments. With a terrible effort he twisted the sword behind the hammer and seized the bare, dripping blade, locking the shaft of Dwalin's weapon between them.

“I have called you my brother,” Thorin said, voice hoarse. “Now I call you traitor!”

Still Dwalin did not seize his advantage, though he might have pulled free and wounded Thorin’s vulnerable hand sorely upon his own blade in the doing. 

“You are mad.” Dwalin’s voice growled low in his chest, barely audible. He stepped nearer and seized Thorin’s battle-braid, bringing them chest to chest. “Do you not see the folly of your choices? Even now, do you not see?" Tears glistened in his eyes and on his cheeks. "You will lead all who follow you to ruin in the dungeons of Sauron. No other dwarf has ever fallen so low as Thorin Oakenshield! Yet only repent of this alliance, help us defeat our foes, and I will still call you my king!”

“Flói, Náli!” Thorin bellowed, spittle flying to strike Dwalin’s face and mingling with the tears on Dwalin's face. “To me!”

His loyal subjects answered his call, though the fire demon did not; they stepped forward in haste. Equally swift, Dwalin pulled back, leaving his hammer in Thorin’s keeping. His big hands groped for Grasper and Keeper; he drew the hand-axes with a flourish and bared his teeth, flexing his mighty muscles. 

“I will offer no further quarter. Be buried with your king,” he told them as Thorin dropped the hammer and kicked it over the precipice. Gimli saw Flói’s throat bob, but Thorin's loyal followers did not shrink back from Dwalin, raising their mauls and preparing for attack. 

The rest of Thorin’s allies mustered as well-- Kíli arrayed himself against Gimli. They had often sparred together, training under Dwalin’s stern and exacting tutelage, and they knew one another's fighting style well. Gimli kept half an eye on Kíli’s short sword as they faced off, while carefully watching his cousin’s face. Kíli was fierce and battle-tested, but still retained the impulsive recklessness of youth, and his plans might be visible in his eyes, especially to one who knew him well. 

“I believed you loved the elf-queen,” Kíli taunted him, eyes glittering with an ugly light. “Doubtless that is as you wished, for I see now it is far worse than that. I have seen your _o’fih_ in the hair of Thranduil’s get. It is true, then, what is whispered throughout Dale: you have pledged yourself to your captor, both slave and catamite to Thranduilion!” 

“Better catamite to an elf than mindless follower of a mad king in the service of Sauron!” Gimli refused to allow Kíli's insults to rattle him. Likewise, he refused to strike first; let the dishonor of that choice go to Kíli. 

Kíli grimaced, circling, forcing Gimli to turn away from the group. His cousin meant to isolate him, he understood at once. He hesitated. Behind him, Dwalin clashed with Flói and Náli while Dís addressed herself to Thorin. Gimli grimaced. He would not wish for her to have to fight her own brother, but to fight her son would be even worse. He let himself be drawn.

Agile, Kíli danced away and maneuvered himself up a rough outcrop of schist, its treacherous surface flaking under his feet. The glitter of mica in the stone reflected simmering flame; Gimli circled it warily, unwilling to risk a direct charge onto high ground. Perched perhaps a foot higher than Gimli, Kíli gained a considerable advantage of reach and strength without leaving his legs vulnerable. He sacrificed solid footing, though, his iron-shod boots uncertain on the uneven, crumbling surface.

“You are overcome with grief,” Gimli said, again resisting the temptation to strike. This was his cousin, his childhood friend, his own close kin! “It is no shame to own this, to acknowledge that your anguish has led you to this place, and to step away from it. Leave the misguided loyalty that holds you to Thorin's rule.”

“You would speak thus to me with a pledge bead in your hair and your lover at hand? You would dare?” Kíli snarled. “I will have none of your blandishments!” He slashed wildly at Gimli, who blocked the stroke easily with one of his borrowed axes, trying in vain to hook the axe's curved tip over Kíli’s sword and jerk it out of his hand.

“Your own mother fights before the claws of Durin’s Bane, resisting the brother who would have it crush her, and yet you support him!” He taunted Kíli-- if he could not appeal to his cousin’s reason, then perhaps he could do as he had of old. He might enrage Kíli so fully his cousin took no thought of strategy or caution before he struck. 

“She has declared her intent to usurp the throne!” Kíli’s voice sharpened. “I cannot help her now.” A fey light shone in his eyes, but there was sweat on his brow, and he glanced toward Dís despite himself.

Gimli ducked the next stroke of Kíli’s sword, circling to make him follow, aware always of Kíli’s uncertain footing and hoping to exploit it. Kíli shuffled carefully in a circle, scowling; Gimli prodded carefully at his defenses, wary of his cousin’s greater speed. The Lady fought nearby, white light sizzling forth from her palms to strike at the wraiths, holding them at bay.

A terrible rasping cry and the eclipse of a shadow warned of a diving fell-beast; a burst of Galadriel's elf-light struck its neck and it drew up at the last moment, its claws grazing Kíli’s helm. The lash of its tail sent Gimli rolling nearly to the edge. He drew himself to his knees in time to see the balrog lash out with its whip, entangling a dozen dwarves and elves with as many orcs, sending the whole wailing group tumbling across the void of the brightening sky to crash against an adjacent peak and slither down toward the valley below, gathering tumbling clots of snow about them in a vast avalanche as they fell.

Distracted, Gimli did not quite raise his axe fast enough to block Kíli’s next stroke; it caught his gauntlet and sent his double-bladed axe spinning. Gimli ducked away, already groping for his second axe, a single-headed weapon with a long handle. Kíli dove down from his height, pressing Gimli back as he struggled to bring his new axe to bear, driving him toward the thick of the fray. 

Gimli ducked behind a pair of orcs scuffling over the mithril-chased pauldron they had snatched from a dead elf. He meant to emerge ready to do battle, but was halted by the sight of his father nursing a cut across his right shoulder. Aragorn stood by Glóin, hastily binding the wound with cloth and herbs. Beholding Gimli, Glóin tossed his own two-handed axe to him. “I must finish the fight one-handed,” Glóin snarled. “Take it!”

Gimli caught the axe and set himself to meet Kíli-- but he did not emerge at once from the fray. To his dismay, Gimli found Kíli faced off against his mother, Dwalin and Thorin locked in mortal combat near alongside. 

“My son, leave him,” Dis urged, her voice low and warm; Kíli hesitated, but did not lower his sword. They fought very near to the edge; Gimli could see at once that neither Dís nor Kíli had the will to strike a telling blow against the other. Dís was unaccustomed to battle and had begun to tire, her axe-head sagging low as she held the shaft in readiness for a parry. Adrenaline spent, she nevertheless forced herself onward, jaw set with grim purpose. 

To one side, Gimli beheld Legolas and Khamul trading blows. Then the wraith vanished, only to reappear again close to Galadriel. Gimli faltered, torn; the wraiths closed in about her in a terrible circle, the Lady attended by Haldir and his brothers. He saw Legolas turn toward them, then watched in horror as the wraith drove its sword through one of the Lórien elves.

Galadriel was left alone to face the Nine.

Kíli followed Gimli’s gaze, turning away from his mother and stepping toward Galadriel as if pulled against his will. 

Gimli roared, charging to her rescue, batting goblins and orcs out of his way as he ran, and cared not if any followed him-- as he watched, the wraith vanished, taking the elf's limp body with him. Gimli snarled, trying to sidestep an ogre, but the beast’s breastplate turned his axe; it would not be thwarted so easily. Cursing, Gimli swatted it again, but his haste betrayed him. It struck him with its club and sent him rolling and tumbling almost to the feet of Thorin Oakenshield, buffeting Dwalin’s calf and sending him staggering into the stroke of Orcrist, which cleaved through Dwalin’s vambrace and bit deeply into his arm.

Dwalin steadied, hissing a curse, but the damage was done. A wide, wicked smile stretched Thorin’s lips; his eyes glittered with triumph. He stepped forward to press his advantage, striking at Dwalin’s wound. He forced the burly dwarf aside, leaping through the gap and seizing Nori just as a flash of bright golden light erupted, blinding them all. Gimli squeezed his lids shut to preserve what was left of his night vision. 

The nazgûl uttered a terrible scream, the sound echoing weirdly and rolling through the mountain crags; Gimli blinked fiercely against the dazzle in his eyes. The light had gone, but the dawn was swiftly waxing to replace it. He froze, suddenly aware of a silver blade filling his vision, extending upward to... Thorin. The mad king of Moria stood over him, Orcrist pointed at the vulnerable hollow of Gimli’s throat, the point so close it blurred, the Arkenstone once more clutched tightly in his left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tumblr user katajainen for giving this chapter a read-through!


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle continues.
> 
> Artwork for this chapter provided by the brilliant [Cabravitis](http://cabravitis.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Warning: Please be aware that as the battle intensifies, you should be prepared to see violence; gore and explicit depictions of battle injury including physical damage from conventional weapons, spiritual damage from dark magic, and disturbing images involving fire; confrontation between betrayer and betrayed; and possible character death.

Elves rallied around Legolas, Haldir and his brothers stepping up to flank the lady, defending her from lesser foes so she could focus on weaving her magic against the wraiths. She raised her hands, light glowing between her lifted palms, the brightness waxing until the orcs quailed away from her. Elves drove forward, dispatching them with swift, efficient strokes, but the nazgûl and their mounts did not draw away. They tightened into an arc at the edge of the precipice, Khamul at their head.

Legolas frowned, counting only eight; his sword-arm ached and he worked his shoulder, trying to throw off the wraith’s unwholesome magic. A blinding flare of light and a terrible hiss caught his attention: the balrog, caged with lightning, teetered on bound feet. Bilbo lay exposed nearby , staring at it-- then his head turned and he lay still, eyes going so wide Legolas could see the whites in a stark ring all the way around his pupils.

The Witch King advanced on the Ringbearer, his sword scraping and squealing as he pulled it deliberately from its sheath, mail-clad fingers wrapping around the hilt one by one. Bilbo froze where he was like a rabbit hypnotized by the final approach of his foe, his hand slowly creeping up to lift the Ring, to hold it poised as his other hand rose, a trembling finger extended--

Legolas drew his bow and shouted, sending an arrow to clatter across the stone between them; the spell broke and Bilbo scuttled backward, away from the wraith. 

Only the hiss of disturbed air warned Legolas before it was too late; he flung himself forward and Khamul’s sword shattered the air where he had stood, a two-handed chop that would have riven him in two. 

“You will not live to see the dwarf die in torment in the fortresses of Sauron.” Khamul swung again, and Legolas rolled to avoid the strike. S parks showered up from the rough granite, where he had lain, but there was no notch in the wraith’s sword when he pulled it back. Legolas heard Bilbo shriek, but had no more time to spare in looking out for him; he tumbled again and came up on his feet. 

Galadriel was beset and in trouble, throwing balls of white light to drive back the wraiths, but even diminished by two, there were too many of them for her to manage alone. Her eyes sought for Bilbo and reflected the balrog’s red fire; its footfalls shuddered the stone spire and men shouted with mingled alarm and triumph. Legolas brought his blade to bear and swung at Khamul-- who shivered away but did not reform in front of him; instead the wraith appeared behind Haldir as the elf thrust his blade through the chest of an ogre.

Legolas opened his mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late; the wraith’s steel pierced Haldir’s armor and emerged from his breast, crimson and dripping. The wraith laughed a thin and terrible cackle, shoving yet more of the blade into Haldir until its hilt rested against his back.

Legolas screamed aloud in echo to his friend, running toward him-- but the distance stretched as if he would never arrive. Haldir shuddered, glassy eyes fixing on the sky as his _fëa_ tried to flee, but was bound by the wraith’s magic. His silent scream faded slowly, skirling a shudder of horror up Legolas’s spine; together Khamul and Haldir simply… winked out.

Legolas shuddered in horror and pity as the nazgûl screamed in triumph, a horrible sound that made all the hairs on Legolas’s body rise and crawl. Fell-beasts swooped and darted, lifting foes in their claws and flinging them to fall on the mountainside like writhing, shrieking snow. 

In a passion of grief and rage, many elves shot at the fell-beasts, wasting what remained of their arrows in their madness. Rumil and Orophin sought for Haldir’s body, but it was gone; the two of them flew mad with fury and their blades formed a wall of death, carving through orcs and spattering black ichor upon the ice. Everywhere Legolas looked, friend and foe lay twisted, unmoving. 

The remaining eight nazgûl tightened their arc into a circle about Galadriel, their combined darkness suddenly making her seem small-- a frail candle against terrible black night, about to be extinguished by the draft of their breath. Valiant though she was, the multitude of her foes overwhelmed her.

Legolas set his jaw and drew his sword. Elsewhere the balrog roared and the wizard shouted. He knew not how Gimli fared, or any of the Fellowship. He knew only this: he might not be able to do more than distract her terrible foes, but he would die trying to aid the Lady, if he must. 

He swung wildly, dancing a ring around the closing circle of wraiths, inconveniencing them as much as he could-- yet as the ones Legolas struck shivered and reformed, Khamul reappeared, still laughing, to join them.

“Fear not, elf. You will see your friend again.” The foul words lodged in Legolas’s mind like bitter shards of ice. “Though you will wish it not! Now we will enslave your precious queen, as well!”

The fell-beasts closed in tighter about the spire now that the Elvish arrows were spent; their leathery wings raised a tumult of ice crystals and ash, nearly blinding all who fought atop the pillar. Galadriel stood erect with her blade of light, pinned between the chiefs of the nazgûl, all their fellows ranged around her: imprisoned in a wicked trap of steel whose touch meant worse than death. Her calm gray eyes touched Legolas’s for an instant; he felt all the force of her will pass through him and staggered, trying to comprehend her meaning even as he perceived her choice. Her left hand rose; a small thing left her clasp and glinted in the air, turning over and over as it arced above the circle toward Legolas.

“Now you will be one of us, elf hag; we will take you to Sauron and rip the flesh from your bones,” the Witch King hissed, exultant, its cold blade extended toward her throat.

Galadriel glanced over her shoulder toward Khamul, then forward at the crowned king of the ringwraiths. “Let the prophecy be fulfilled,” Galadriel said as she dove at him, leading with her steel sword.

A golden light erupted from Galadriel’s slim body and wreathed the mountaintop in sudden silver glory that mingled with rose and gold of the coming dawn. Her sword struck the Witch King solidly in the center of his chest.

He screamed, a sound that ratcheted up to the point of pain, then beyond. The sound crawled along Legolas's flesh, inaudible but felt. The Witch King writhed as he twisted on her blade, as if crushed by a giant's fist, then smoked and withered away-- but even as he died, Galadriel’s form slumped to the ground, small and dim, her long hair a shroud of silver-gold. She lay still, untouched by blade or knife, her eyes open-- as empty and unseeing as Giledhel’s. 

Khamul stepped forward to prod at her with his blade.

Legolas’s hand plucked the talisman out of the air, then opened, revealing a small, finely-carved circle of mithril with a white stone set at its center.

Somewhere a dwarf screamed; a small solid body buffeted Legolas aside, nearly knocking him down. 

“You will not touch her!” Kíli hacked at Khamul’s sword, planting himself between the wraith and Galadriel’s body, knocking the cold, dark sword aside; his face was wet and his teeth clenched as he strove to defend her-- not knowing it was too late, but valiant for all of that. 

  
Artwork by the brilliant [Cabravitis!](http://cabravitis.tumblr.com/)

“For Tauriel,” he screamed, and swung with berserker fury-- but his foe melted away, indifferent to him, and reformed behind him, bending over Galadriel’s body. Khamul lifted her bare hand; then the nazgûl shrieked in chorus, the angry howling mingling with the bitter wind. As one, their hoods turned away-- toward Legolas.

Holding his breath, Legolas slipped Nenya onto his finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tumblr user katajainen for giving this chapter a read-through!


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle concludes.
> 
> Warning: Please be aware that as the battle intensifies, you should be prepared to see violence; gore and explicit depictions of battle injury including physical damage from conventional weapons, spiritual damage from dark magic, and disturbing images involving fire; confrontation between betrayer and betrayed; and possible character death.
> 
> Thanks to Tumblr user katajainen for giving this chapter a read-through!

Legolas’s arrow skipped across the stone before Bilbo, the clatter penetrating the cold black fog that had gathered in his brain; he shuddered and broke away from the spell, scrambling back toward the wizard. Gandalf pressed forward, Glamdring in hand, and swung at the balrog, which snapped its whip around, forcing the wizard to leap over its writhing thongs. The lightning faded to nothingness and the balrog steadied, its batlike wings beating the wind savagely and driving back its foes. 

Ecthelion cried out as a thong of the whip wrapped around his thigh; quicker than thought, Thengel seized him, bringing his blade down on the thong and dragging him away. The fiery whip clung, and Ecthelion’s agonized screams chilled Bilbo to the core; Óin rushed to tear at the thing with his gauntlets, peeling it away. Finally he threw it, writhing, over the edge. The two of them hauled their stricken comrade toward the stair, where he might make his way within. 

More elves and dwarves streamed from the gate at Aragorn’s command-- the last of their numbers; the reserves were already exhausted. 

Glorfindel’s chain bound the balrog’s feet, holding it in place; it blazed with fury, trying to kick away the binding or melt it until it burst.

“We must not tarry,” Glorfindel snapped, and flung himself forward, catching the trailing edge of the chain. He leaped between the balrog’s legs, his hair rekindling, and set himself against the end of the chain, jerking it along with him as he plowed toward the edge. The balrog roared, staggering again, and teetered. 

“Press forward!” Gandalf shouted. “Rally! Do not let it recover!”

All within hearing pressed forward, striking as they might at the thing’s legs and feet, trying to evade the cruel whine of its whip, once again leaving Bilbo exposed.

Bilbo hesitated, glancing about the battlefield to see where he might lend his aid; the balrog was a foe far beyond him; even if he joined the charge, what more could he do than hew at its toes?

Thorin and Dwalin caught his eye, and Gimli rolling toward them; Gimli struck Dwalin’s calf and staggered him. Thorin’s sword flashed down faster than thought, slicing Dwalin’s arm. 

Snarling, Thorin dove past Dwalin to Nori, knocking aside his small knife, and seized Nori’s arm, snatching the Arkenstone from his fingers. Dwalin staggered, recovering, but he had lost Grasper; he wheeled with Keeper, awkward, and Thorin shoved Nori at him, pushing Orcrist to the base of Gimli’s throat.

“And so you fail, traitors!” Thorin raised the stone high in his left hand. “To me, bane of Durin, and redress the wrongs you have done to the Kings of Moria!”

Dwalin stared down at Gimli for a split second, as if counting the cost of his decision. But before he could choose, a golden flare all but blinded Bilbo, its force like a thunderclap, buffeting him to the ground--

And Dwalin struck. Keeper dove in with all his strength behind it, unerring and merciless. The stroke cleaved Thorin’s armor at the couter, severing the lower half of his left arm. Thorin screamed, a wailing, echoing cry, desolate-- and his sword clanged to the stone. He stared down at the Arkenstone, still held in his clenched fist, then clutched the bleeding stump as the Balrog fell lengthways toward him, its bulk crushing friend and foe alike, its raking claws seizing Thorin’s severed arm. It roared, scorching gouts of flame spouting wildly across the top of Durin’s Tower, and brought the arm to its maw, devouring it whole.

Bilbo stared in horror as Glorfindel flung himself over the side with a wild shout and the balrog began to slide inexorably after him, claws scoring the stone, the thongs of its cruel whip trailing after it. But the chain was too short; Glorfindel’s weight upon it was not enough to counterbalance such a large and heavy creature. Its claws found purchase and it struggled to its knees, bellowing.

Bilbo could feel the nazgûl gathering behind him, the icy heaviness of their will hammering at his breast, compelling him to turn and come to them. The Ring swayed heavily at his breast and his heart hammered. He set his hand upon it. _No,_ he thought, and the Balrog’s heavy head swung toward him, its blazing eyes pinning him where he stood. Reckless, he shoved his finger through its circle and drew himself upright. _**NO!**_

The balrog roared and its whip whined, the blazing thongs singeing the air close about Bilbo, but power sizzled through him, a roaring flood of filth more noisome than a midden. Everything but the balrog and the nazgûl faded away-- all his companions except Legolas, who stood tall and clear between him and the ringwraiths, a pulsing locus of bright power. Legolas outstretched his hand, his hair writhing and coiling, holding the wraiths at bay. The balrog snarled at him, extending its terrible claw toward Bilbo-- toward the Ring.

 _ **BE GONE!**_ From deep within Bilbo an unknown voice thundered, and he took a step toward the demon, suddenly perceiving Gandalf on its other side, staring at him in horror. _**IT. IS. MINE.**_

“Take it off, you fool! Take off the Ring!”

The voice pulsing inside him snarled, its malevolent will leaping out at Gandalf, leaving Bilbo unattended-- with an instant of his own will dominant, able to choose. The Ring fell to the end of its chain, dangling empty, and he sagged, gasping, trying to force air into lungs that struggled to reject it. 

Beyond him, the balrog howled, still crouched on its knees, one black hand clawing at its belly.

“The Arkenstone,” Aragorn shouted. “It pains the beast; look!” 

Indeed, a white glow emanated between the thing’s claws, as if the fire in its belly burned angry white. Bilbo groped at his chest again, hope flaring in him-- and as he did, the small hard shape of the Lady’s starglass came under his questing fingers. He squinted at the mingled flare of the Balrog’s fell light and the clean radiance of the coming dawn, fingers closing around the phial--

“The eagles!” Bilbo shrieked, scrambling upright and pointing toward the blaze of light as dawn finally broke over the mountains. “The eagles are coming!” He drew out the glass and it flared, cool white light pulsing between his fingers, his hand ablaze.

“The eagles! Lord Elrond draws near!” Legolas cried aloud. He leaped, seizing the claw of a fell-beast, and vaulted atop Durin’s Tower; he put an arrow to the string of his bow. It burned with clean flame as he loosed it, diving straight for Khamul. “Despair, servants of Sauron! The dawn is come!” 

Orcs and ogres both quailed from the light, beset from both sides; Khamul hissed with baffled fury and faded from sight. The elf’s gleaming arrow buried itself in another wraith, who shrieked and burned from within, its flailing course kindling the garments of the others, who shied from it, seeking their mounts.

The eagles dove for them, talons and pounces outstretched. Lord Elrond’s dark hair whipped; he stood atop the foremost bird, which stooped to harry the balrog with its talons. The balrog screamed, drawing itself upright; Elrond vaulted a graceful somersault over Legolas’s next arrow, which struck the thing in its forehead, snapping back its chin. Gandalf followed fast, launching a bolt of fire that struck the balrog in its chest, driving it back a half-step toward the edge.

The eagle’s talons scored the balrog’s leftmost wing, tearing the fragile membrane asunder; its desperate flapping only served to make it topple off-balance, flailing. It could not set its chain-tangled feet to compensate, so it fell, vanishing into the void with a fading roar. 

The nazgûl wheeled atop their mounts, shrieking and crying, demoralized by the loss of their leader and by Legolas’s blazing arrows, which deviled them as they fled into the mountain peaks, scattering far and wide. 

Bilbo gazed about the mountaintop, first finding Gandalf and Legolas, shining fit to rival the rising sun, stepped toward the edge to ensure the demise of their fallen foe. At the opposite end of the field Galadriel lay crumpled; Kíli the dwarf knelt at her side, trying to rouse her. Closer by, Elrond and Gimli knelt at Thorin’s side with Dwalin and Dís, their hands stained crimson. As he watched, Aragorn and Óin hurried to attend them. Thengel hewed fiercely at the few quailing orcs that remained, a handful of surviving dwarves answering his rallying cry.

The frantic energy that had animated Bilbo faded with sudden speed, leaving him nauseated and dizzy; he sank to his knees, the starglass still clutched in his white-knuckled fingers. He blinked at the spot where the balrog had fallen. The blackened rock still smoked, scored with the marks of its clawed feet. Beyond the spot the sun blazed forth its light, climbing slowly above the rim of the world. “The Golden Flower,” he murmured, disconsolate, then slumped senseless to the stone.


	66. Chapter 66

Gimli stepped back from Thorin, making room to allow Elrond to work. Aragorn joined him, putting Andúril into its sheath and trudging wearily toward the wizard and Legolas, who swiftly fell to his knees and leaned over the edge, reaching downward. Gimli hastened forward and beheld Glorfindel hanging there, clinging by the fingers of one hand to a cut in the smooth stonework of the tower. He hung far out of reach.

“Fetch a rope. A chain! Anything,” the wizard snapped. “Glorfindel is yet alive!”

A nearby fallen orc still carried a length of sturdy rope and a grappling hook; Aragorn snatched it and they hurried over, lowering it so Glorfindel might grasp the hook and be dragged upward. Far beneath him the corpse of the balrog sizzled and steamed amidst melted snow, slowly cooling; it had landed atop a sharp spike of rock, the spike piercing its horned head, and to Gimli’s great relief, it appeared quite dead. 

“That was a near thing,” Glorfindel said, regaining his feet. “I took care that I was not entangled in the chain, and its own fire kept it from seizing my hair-- I have none left to grasp,” he mourned. “But I did not count on the craftsmanship of dwarves. The sides of this pillar are icy-smooth. If it had not gashed the stone in trying to drag me with it as it fell, there would have been nothing to cling to after I released the chain.” He gazed down at his fallen foe for a moment, seeming untroubled by the closeness of his escape.

The elf looked a terrible fright, his golden hair all but gone, his clothing badly burned and his face smeared with soot, but he was evidently in good spirits. “I am too canny to die the same way twice,” he said, and laughed, but then he paused.

“My country cousin!” He blinked at Legolas suddenly, amazed. “What wonder has befallen you?”

“Where is Bilbo?” the wizard fretted aloud, and dragged Aragorn away to search for him.

Gimli blinked at Legolas, but could see nothing different in him, and he scowled at the mystery. He would never understand elves.

“The Lady,” Legolas said of a sudden, and rushed away without offering an answer. 

Gimli gazed after him, then at once began to run; Galadriel lay crumpled with Kíli at her side.

“She will not wake,” Kíli said to them, desperate. “What sorcery is this? Can you amend it?”

“I cannot,” Legolas knelt at the Lady’s side and turned her over. Her gray eyes stared sightless into the sky. “She is beyond any power in this place-- be it good or evil.” 

Gimli arrived in time to see this, and he also knelt down to behold her staring eyes, empty like Giledhil’s.

“Haldir fell to the wraith’s steel,” Legolas said, his voice soft with anguish. “And he was bound and dragged away by them in body and in spirit-- and thus a wraith he shall become. She chose not to share his fate.” He wrung his hands once, his fingers sliding over those of his left hand. “She would have become great and terrible, a wraith second in power only to the Witch King, had they taken her.”

Gimli keened his grief, kneeling bereft by the Lady’s still body, his hand rising to cover the strands of her hair that he carried coiled at his breast. 

“Haldir my friend-- my Silvan brother,” Legolas spoke softly. “When we meet, I shall do my utmost to free what remains of you, and if you may be saved, I trust you will find your sanctuary with Námo, who it is said has power to heal all hurts, and the ladies Nienna and Estë, who aid him in this. May they bring you peace.” He arose then, and his face was terrible with wrath and grief. 

“Thus passes the Lady of Lórien,” he said, “triumphant in the defeat of her foe. It was said in prophecy that he could not be slain by the hand of man, and so he was not, for Galadriel was both elf and woman, by far the greatest ruler of this age. Hers is a loss we will feel keenly, I fear.” He wrung his hands again, and Gimli wondered at the gesture; perhaps they pained him. “For the lord of the wraiths was less than she. Yet he had his fellows with him, and she could not be sure to escape them all, not when they held her prisoned within a circle of cold iron and curséd steel.” 

He stood there long, his face downcast as Gimli and Kíli wept; when they roused themselves again Gandalf and Elrond stood beside them, their faces wet also.

“Let her _hröa_ be carried to the Golden Wood, and there kept safe until the Lord Celeborn may decide what he will do with her,” Elrond said at last, his face haggard with grief. “Alas that I came not sooner! But the winds of the southern passes were turned against us, and we must circle ’round and come from the north.”

“Saruman’s work,” Gandalf said, his voice heavy. “We must deal with his treachery, and soon will be better than late.” 

“Gwaihir,” Elrond called. “And Landroval, and those of your kind who were not wounded in the battle. Will you carry the Lady and her companions to Lothlórien? I will stay here and tend all who were harmed; I will call for elves to mount the stair and climb after any who may survive below.” He glanced at Legolas and something seemed to pass between them then, but no words were spoken.

The eagles swooped low, the backing of their wings raising a haze of cinders and ash. Soon Gimli found himself clinging desperately behind Legolas, in terror of the dizzying drop below as one great bird launched aloft again with them perched between its wings. They rose in slow circles behind the Lord of the Eagles, Gwaihir, who bore Gandalf, riding with the Lady cradled tenderly in his arms. 

Bilbo and Glorfindel followed close on their trail, and others rose behind Legolas and Gimli. Thus the Fellowship entire was carried from the top of Zirakzigil safe to Lothlórien, where their various hurts might be attended-- and Thorin Oakenshield rode also, held upright and tended by Dwalin, who sat straight-backed and dry-eyed, a gleaming white bandage bound about his arm, but would not answer Gimli’s call. Nor would he surrender his senseless burden to any elves when they arrived, carrying Thorin away himself under the care of the elvish healers who awaited.

Legolas lifted his eyes to the great canopy of mallorn trees and beheld golden leaves drifting down like enormous butterflies circling in the air. “The wood feels her loss,” he said slowly, and closed his eyes, lifting his arms.

He seemed to blur-- Gimli was not sure how else to say it; for though Legolas remained present, crisp and clear, there was a sense of uncounted years passing, of endless time compressed into a powerful buzz just beyond Gimli’s grasp, encompassing the elf entire-- a force like a mighty wind that lifted the hairs upon Legolas’s head, but did not stir the trees about him. Then his knees buckled and his eyes opened and Legolas was again fully present. A few golden leaves drifted down to lie upon the ground around their feet, but no more followed them.

Gimli steadied him, looking about for help, but none was to be had. Gandalf carried Galadriel away, ascending the stair encircling the mighty mallorn atop Cerin Amroth, which stood close by where they had landed.

“He means to let her lie in state at the heart of her realm until her lord returns,” Legolas said, still swaying. 

“You are hurt. Or ill,” Gimli fretted. “Were you wounded?” He might have stood staring in wonder at the beauty of the wood, but his cares pressed hard upon him-- and he did not understand the elf’s seeming malady. “Are you in pain?”

“No. It is passing, Legolas said. “But I would be glad of a place to lie and rest, where I might soothe my grief with tears, for my sorrow is a heavy weight upon my heart.”

Glorfindel approached them then, his eagle launching away with slow beats of its huge wings. "I too would rest," he said. "For the memory of Gondolin is strong upon me. Come, let us go out onto the green and lie among the elanor and niphredil." He gazed at Legolas. "None will trouble us there-- lest it be Gandalf, for I deem he would have words with you after the Lady has been cared for."

"We will go," Legolas said, and they lay down with Gimli arranged between them. Many who passed lingered to gaze at them in wonder, but did not challenge Gimli as he sat wearily between his fellows and set himself to watch as they slipped into reverie, prepared to guard them if he must.


	67. Chapter 67

Many elves passed going to and fro about their business, and not a few gazed on Gimli with wide eyes, astonished to see a dwarf in the heart of their realm, sitting guard between two of their sleeping kin.

After a time Gandalf descended, leaning heavily upon his staff, his face weary and his step slow. “The Lady is laid in state,” he said, slumping to the ground near Gimli. “And my heart is heavy, for she and I have been friends for many a long year in service to the light.” His hat shaded his face from the rays of the sun, which Gimli judged stood near noon. 

“There is much I must do; Aragorn and Elrond are tending the wounded, but our comrades journey from the mountains, and I have much to do to prepare for our council of war-- an uneasy one, I cannot doubt, with so many elves and dwarves gathered in one small place. Not all will be willing to set aside old griefs.” Gandalf sighed. “And I must return to the mountains, as well-- I mean to examine our foe once his fires have cooled, for we may find much of interest there. I would have you with me, Gimli, when I venture that journey.” Gandalf looked aside to Legolas at last. “And I must have speech with Legolas-- long speech, I think, and Lord Elrond with me.”

As if rousing to the call of his name, Legolas stirred and sat upright, passing his hand before his face to cover a yawn. “Mithrandir,” he said, and alertness flowed back into his face swiftly. “I am glad you have come.”

“I daresay you are.” Gandalf slapped his knees and surged upright. “Let us go to the place of healing and inquire after Lord Elrond. It may be that he can leave his charges for a time to take counsel with us.”

“I will stay with Glorfindel,” Gimli said, reluctant, perceiving that he was not invited to attend their counsel together. “And make ready to receive my kin when they come to this place. Assuming they will be welcomed beyond the border!”

“Not all, certainly, but the foremost among them will be given escort,” Gandalf said. “They will come with the lord Celeborn. I will send a messenger to have you brought to Caras Galadhon so you may see to their lodgings and ensure they will have what they require to pass their days here in comfort.”

So Gimli and Glorfindel went when the messenger arrived, and Gimli spent the next days arranging food and lodging for his people-- among the roots of the trees so they might sleep in comfort, rather than upon the flets and talans above. While he worked, Glorfindel was his companion, helping to translate when he must speak with those of the elves who did not know the common tongue. 

He did not have speech with Legolas for two days, so busy were they all-- Legolas remained closeted with Elrond and the wizard for many hours.

On the morning two days after Galadriel fell, Gimli awaited word that Celeborn and the leaders of the dwarves had passed into the wood, but received instead a visit from Legolas, Gandalf, and the Lord Elrond. He thought Legolas looked sober and weary, but the elf smiled on him and went to one knee for an embrace, which Gimli gave in gladness. 

“You have been busy,” Legolas said, looking at the tree-root caves and the pavilions strung over them, with rich furnishings and carpets set in readiness for the dwarvish royalty. “And I trust your labors will be rewarded with a successful meeting.” The elf’s smile did not touch his eyes, and Gimli frowned, puffing at his mustache.

“As successful as may be.” He looked to Elrond. “How fares Thorin?”

“Thorin Oakenshield will survive his wounds. His kinsman Dwalin attends him now, and the lord Aragorn, in my absence. It will be some days yet before he awakens, I deem.” Elrond did not look best pleased, but Gimli took no offense. 

“We have come to fetch you to journey back to the peak of Zirak-Zigil,” Gandalf said. “For the fate of the balrog is a matter that concerns the dwarves closely, and thus I would have you bear witness to my business there. Bring a hammer, for we will have need of it.”

“Very well.”

Gimli liked his second journey aloft even less than the first; he sat behind Legolas, clinging to the elf’s waist, face buried in the elf’s long blond hair.

“There are my folk and yours with them, winding along the Celebrant-- the Silverlode,” Legolas said. “They will enter the wood before nightfall. They travel slowly, for there are wounded among them and many are worn with fatigue and grief.” 

“I will take your word for it,” Gimli said, gruff, and moved not a whit until the eagle backed its wings and Legolas sprang from it, his boots crunching on snow.

“Have a care; the snow has melted and frozen once more as ice.”

Gimli climbed down rather more carefully and stamped to ensure his footing, sending cracks radiating through the sheen of pure ice beneath his feet. 

Gandalf strode across the blackened field of ice, his staff keeping him upright, and Elrond followed, easily nimble. The balrog lay prone; not even a steam or wisp of smoke rose from its body, which had hardened to the consistency of stone. Snowflakes lay drifted in the palm of its outflung hand.

Gimli stepped near the beast and prodded at its flank with his boot; for all it moved, it may as well have been part of the bones of the mountain.

“Bring your hammer and follow me,” Gandalf said. Gimli obeyed, and together they scrambled up the thing’s side to stand on its chest.

“Strike it there on the flat of its belly,” Gandalf extended his finger, and Gimli shrugged and swung with great force, expecting his hammer to rebound without leaving a dent.

Instead the flesh of the beast cracked and crumbled beneath his hammer; the two of them scrambled backward onto its chest for safety as the cavern of its belly collapsed, a hollow shell. 

“Ah!” The wizard stepped forward again, prodding into the cavity with the end of his staff. “That is a welcome sight.” He stirred the crumbled ash and stone of its belly, and Gimli caught sight of a gleam. “Tell me, Gimli. What do you see?”

“The Arkenstone,” he breathed, astonished. “How can this be?”

“It is as I thought. It is a gem of Valinor-- not a Silmaril, not even for all the harm it has wrought, but perhaps a forerunner to them, made before the death of the Two Trees as Fëanor learned and tested his craft-- bearing only a fraction of the divine light he captured in his greater jewels, but yet enough to be a bane of evil and a temptation to the minds of all who look on it.” He gazed keenly at Gimli. “It burned the beast from within though it compelled him to devour it. Go in and take it.”

Gimli frowned at Gandalf, but hopped down inside the beast, gazing about the cavity-- its sides were smooth with char like wood half-burned and left to cool. 

He reached and lifted the gem, half-afraid it might burn him or corrupt him all at once. It gleamed in his hand, sparkling like truesilver-- catching the noon light and refracting it with a thousand facets.

“Search well,” Gandalf said, and Gimli put the gem into his pocket, scuffing the toe of his boot through the rubble. 

A gleam of gold caught his eye, and he stooped. He found a heavy ring there, half-engulfed by melted rock, its sapphire stone all but obscured. He rubbed at it with his thumb and the fragile crystallized stone crumbled away, leaving it to shine in his palm.

“The Ring of Thrór,” Gimli whispered, in awe. 

“Thorin wore it when his arm was taken.” Gandalf straightened. “Climb out now, son of Glóin. You have found your treasures.” He extended his staff for Gimli to seize.

Gimli scrambled up, aided by a sturdy pull, and stood in the sunlight once more.

“Though many dwarves have ended their lives in the belly of the shadow’s get, I will wager I am the first to emerge again unscathed.” He reached into his pocket and held the gem and the ring out toward the wizard.

“These belong by the dwarves by right,” Gandalf said softly. “And Gimli has proved himself worthy. Do you not agree, Lord Elrond?”

The lord of Rivendell turned half away, as if he would not look upon the Arkenstone. “I will not debate his right to these things-- I know too well the harm such counterclaims may bring. But I question your wisdom in offering them to him.”

“The lady Galadriel judged him worthy herself; she said unto me not long ere she died that she foresaw Gimli’s hands would flow with gold, but over him gold would have no dominion,” Gandalf said, his eyes keen on Gimli’s. “I judge she saw truly.”

Gimli flushed, aware of Legolas’s eyes upon him, warm with pride. He was not so certain; the gleam of the jewel and the golden ring in his hand seemed innocent enough, but he recalled too well the madness of Thorin.

“I would not let Thorin Oakenshield learn you possess these things,” Gandalf cautioned him, as if reading his mind. “He will regard them as his own. It would be better that he believe they perished with the balrog. Hide them away and use them only at great need.”

“Aye.” Gimli could agree with that, at least. He tucked them into his pocket, planning to conceal them sewn in a fold of his clothing just as he had carried his gold on his long journey-- and his _o’fih_ since Rivendell, until the balrog’s whip revealed it to Legolas.

Legolas stepped to his side, gazing at the wizard. “If we have accomplished our purpose here, let us return to Lórien so that we may greet our peoples,” he said, and Gimli wondered at his tone-- strong and calm, he spoke to Gandalf with respect, but without his customary deference. “Cool heads will be needed to prevent bitter words that will forestall agreement, and we must reach accord if we are to prevail.” 

“Yes,” Gandalf agreed. “Between the elves of the Golden Wood and the dwarves, and also with Mirkwood.”

“Have my father sent for,” Legolas did not quail. “And I will bend him to see reason.” He lifted his chin, his jaw firm with determination.

Gimli chortled, suddenly pleased. “I will look forward to seeing that, elf.” He gazed up at the eagles, who perched atop nearby crags, preening their feathers with their strong, hooked beaks. 

Gandalf stepped near to their leader, setting his hand upon its neck. “Do not stray too far, my friend,” he said softly. “We will have need of you again ere long.”


	68. Chapter 68

The flight back to Lothlórien chilled Gimli’s hands to the bone, but sitting before Legolas, he knew he would not fall. The weight of his new jewels sat heavily in his pocket, and he brooded on them, chewing his lower lip between his teeth. 

Legolas held one arm wrapped around his waist, and the elf was wonderfully warm, if unusually silent. Gimli wondered if Legolas, too, brooded on the gifts Gimli had received, or if he had other cares-- he might well be planning how best to address his father. 

“Will you wear your new ring?” Legolas asked him when they were on the ground again.

“My heart misgives me. Perhaps I will try it at great need. Yet it is a perilous thing, I judge.” Gimli’s hand rested over his pocket, protective. “If not so terrible as Bilbo’s burden, it is at least a part of the curse that drove my kinsman mad." 

“The craftsman who wrought it was not evil.” Legolas’s eyes were dimmed with care. “Celebrimbor was one of the greatest artisans among my kind.”

Gimli lifted his gaze, astonished. “I have heard that name. And I know of his companion, Narvi.”

“Yes.” Legolas set his hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “Celebrimbor was deceived by Sauron, who appeared in beautiful, cunning guise and offered secrets in exchange for friendship.” He sighed. “He was betrayed and taken-- tortured and shot through with arrows, then hung on a pike as a banner while Sauron’s horde marched out, bearing him aloft as a trophy of war. Many of his works were taken by Sauron and twisted.”

“The Dwarven rings were such.”

Legolas inclined his head and sat down upon a tumbled shelf of stone, gazing sadly into Gimli’s eyes. “It is so. And yet the dwarves were ever stubborn and most who bore the great rings did not bow to the will of Sauron. It is said they used their treasures not in the service of evil, but to found great kingdoms-- just as some of the elf-lords used theirs.” His eyes darted about them at the unstained glory of Lothlórien and her trees. “As did Galadriel,” his voice fell so low no other might hear.

“And yet the Dwarven rings were not without their price,” Gimli persisted. “For even as we founded great kingdoms, we retreated into them and taught ourselves to fear and mistrust others. We grew to love gold and mithril all too well, and to value and hoard them for their own sake rather than for their use in bringing joy and comfort, or even for the love of skill and craft displayed in what we wrought with them. ...Until we amassed so much worthless wealth the dragons came and took it for their own.”

“Greed is ever a threat to those who are unwary. Even my own father is tangled in its snare.” Legolas stood straight, dignified and arrow-slim. “I see it more clearly than ever, _meleth._ He has grown small and petty, turning inward and hoarding what remains of his greatness even as it is diminished by his own hand. It is not race or nature that breeds evil among the Free Peoples-- it is choice.”

“I would not ever choose to love any gold more than this.” Gimli reached to set his fingers in Legolas’s hair. He slid them down to find the _o’fih_ of his crafting, and took it between his thumb and forefinger. Their eyes locked and held.

“The Lady said you would not.” Legolas folded his hand over Gimli’s, and a shine dazzled Gimli’s eyes, as if a star had come to sit upon Legolas’s hand. “She has entrusted both of us with much.”

Gimli drew a sharp breath as he understood. “Legolas…!”

“The Dark Lord never beheld or touched the Three,” Legolas said. “And they were not darkened. But they are subject to the power of the One, and when he holds it once more….” he gave Gimli a wry smile. “To lose an arm to be rid of such a thing would be a blessing rather than a curse, I think.”

A sudden draft blew dust aloft into the air, and they shielded their eyes as the eagles took flight, their mighty wings beating as they launched toward the distant mountains.

“The two of you have tarried long enough, speaking of great secrets in the open where any might hear,” Gandalf’s words were stern, but his eyes were kind as he stepped toward them. “And yet you have said much that needed saying, I can tell. We have much to do-- you must learn to wield what you hold, Legolas, and your father will not tarry on his way to greet you now that he has heard rumor of it. Gimli, I think it likely the dwarves will be difficult with their hosts and even with one another. I will have great need of your wisdom and counsel in the days to come. If the two of you would have time to lie together in peace and joy, seize it now, while our allies gather and you yet may-- and have more care in in what you say aloud, for even in this realm I judge there are those who might carry tales.”

Gandalf led them forth toward the city, and they were met by a group of elves who bowed low to greet them. “Lodgings have been made ready for you in Caras Galadhon,” a tall elf-woman said, stately in her sorrow. “My lord Legolas, a talan is prepared for you with food and wine.”

“Thank you,” Legolas said-- as gracious and regal as the lord she named him. Though Gimli could see Legolas was discomforted by the reverence she did him, it put him in mind of the state Legolas had occupied when they met: he had grown into a wiser prince now, shaped and tempered by great deeds. “Lead us there.”

They went, parting from Gandalf, who went to check on those who still lay in the care of the healers. A single great mallorn had been set aside for them, with not a ladder but a broad stair set in its trunk. They climbed aloft to find a wide talan hung with screens of silk, lanterns like twinkling stars, and comfortable lodgings arranged within, all open to the air but shielded from the rain by the leaves of the mighty tree. 

Food was ready there, and water for bathing-- cold water, a cheerless sight no matter how lovely the wooden washing tub or the delicate glazes upon the clay jars that held it, Gimli noted with a grimace. The elf-woman bowed and departed, seeming untroubled by Gimli and Legolas remaining there together. Food enough for both had been provided, and chairs, and clothing sized for Gimli: it had been prepared with great thought, dyed Durin blue and tailored after Dwarvish style, embellished with the designs appropriate for his branch of that great house. He eyed it with dismay nonetheless-- it was well-made (if too thin), just as it had been in Mirkwood, except for the light leather boots.

“My people could teach yours much of the cobbler’s art,” Gimli grumbled, holding them up. “These are hardly fit to serve as socks for a dwarf, Legolas! I am no hobbit, made for scampering barefoot across the snow!”

Legolas laughed. “Then set aside your own footwear for cleaning and wear it when we depart.”

Gimli did so, bathing in haste-- using a cloth to scrub himself bit by bit rather than immersing himself all at once in a tub of cold water. When he was clean once more, Gimli donned his new Elvish clothing and went to eat while Legolas bathed himself. He resisted the temptation to do more than glance at Legolas, who stripped to the skin all at once and sank into the water with a sigh, scrubbing his body without haste. 

Legolas joined him at length, clad only in an airy robe that was hardly fit for winter-- and did near nothing to conceal his body. Gimli pushed aside his plate and took up a goblet of wine, letting his eyes rest upon Legolas. He admired the elf’s strong shoulders and narrow hips with frank avarice.

“It would please any treasure to be gazed at thus,” Legolas said, not glancing up. “But I am even more pleased to think that I may unwrap you as a treasure of my own, and that we will spend this night in comfort and at ease rather than in a cold cavern where our every move will be heard by enemy and friend alike.” He lifted his gaze to Gimli and licked a droplet of honey from his lip, his pink tongue gleaming, his eyes steady and hot.

“Where have you learned such artful seduction?” Gimli breathed. 

“I have no teacher other than my wish to give myself to you,” Legolas said, and drank deeply of wine, “which is so great it cannot be mastered. Should Sauron himself seek to interrupt us tonight, I would scorn him and bid him wait.” He set aside the goblet and arose from the table, reaching for Gimli’s hand.

Gimli’s eyes closed and his breath came faster. To hear he was so desired…! Legolas tugged him about the trunk of the tree and toward the room’s wide bed, gentle but insistent. 

Gimli acquiesced, humbled by the knowledge he was so loved, moved even more by the sight of his love token knotted in Legolas’s golden hair. It was artlessly but boldly done, and meant more to Gimli than a thousand finely-made braids on any other being. Legolas knelt by the bed, laying his palms upon his thighs, and awaited Gimli’s guidance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry to stop there! I have more! But I wanted to accommodate anyone who would prefer not to read the smutty parts; they'll be able to read the plot in this chapter, skip the explicit chapter(s), and then pick up the plot after the smut concludes. 
> 
> The actual smut is all but finished, and should be posted within a few days. :-)


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art in this chapter is by the magnificent talent of [ Tosquinha.](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/) (http://http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/) :-)
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains pretty much 100% explicit sex. If you prefer to skip that, please wait for or go directly to chapter 70. The plot will resume there.

Gimli bent to taste Legolas’s lips, and Legolas melted open for him, hot and willing. Gimli stroked his ear, touching the flesh-warm mithril of the cuff, making Legolas shiver. “Come,” he raised Legolas from the floor beside the couch. He glanced at the thin screened walls of the talan where they lodged. Despite the elf’s confidence that none would overhear, was not the deep privacy he would have preferred for this moment, but it was better than the open talan they had shared at the border or the echoing cavern in Moria. At least they could not be seen.

He stood Legolas up, reaching slowly to unfasten his robe. Legolas blushed, his breath coming fast as Gimli bared his chest, letting the cloth fall. He stepped out of it and stood proudly before Gimli, unashamed. Gimli felt his heart begin to pound as if he had run for many leagues. 

Legolas seemed even more beautiful than he remembered: long, lean… impossibly tall, absolutely unscarred, completely without flaw. If he didn’t know better, Gimli would have thought the elf dreadfully fragile. Too long, too pale, too narrow, unmarked…. Yet somehow mouth-watering and perfect for all that. 

“Lie down.” Gimli could hear the rumbling heat in his own voice, and was gratified when Legolas swiftly obeyed him, spreading himself out, a feast for Gimli’s eyes and hands. He laid his head upon a satin pillow, his hair trailing down, and his knees reclined over another, lifting them gracefully. 

Surely it was a sacrilege to set his harsh hands upon such beauty. And in this, a country of elves! Surely the powers would frown on Gimli for his daring-- but he could not care, not with Legolas arching toward him, stroking his hand over his own breast, letting out a longing sigh. 

First Gimli set his hand at the back of Legolas’s thigh, sliding up toward his knee, pulling his thighs slightly apart. Legolas moved exactly as he wished, offering perfect trust, his lashes closing in languorous pleasure. His belly was flat and taut, every muscle firm; the small olive-pink nipples on his strong chest begged for a warm, wet mouth to bring them to tautness. His muscles rippled over his ribs, stretched in long lines along his arms and thighs. His cock lay waiting, not yet erect-- but Gimli knew it would answer his call, rising to his touch. He knew exactly the touch that would waken it most swiftly. And it would do so only for him, always.

Firstborn. Immortal, unimaginable beauty. 

Gimli’s own to touch and caress and take… even to despoil. 

His gaze rested on the cuff set upon Legolas’s ear: it had not marred Legolas’s beauty, only enhanced it. 

No, he would not believe this was sacrilege. Not if the Lady had smiled on it, not if Gandalf gave his benison. This was a sacred, the affirmation of the light through love. He must trust Legolas would not be forced to pay too dear a price for their differences, for Gimli could not reject such a pure and lovely offering. He was only mortal flesh.

His hand moved, curving about the pale column of Legolas’s thigh, feeling the faint dusting of pale golden hair on him. Over his knee, down his calf. Along his narrow foot, the slender bones, the tender arch. Legolas squirmed, settling comfortably into the velvet padding, his eyes shining as he lay waiting to be touched. Gimli looked up along his body, swallowing hard. He would have that body, that perfection. More than just a hasty touch in the dark: everything, for a lifetime. Too short. His eyes blurred with tears. The elf should have more, but he had chosen. It was his right to choose.

Gimli moved up to find the bead in Legolas’s hair. He had been pressed for time, and had knotted his own golden locks with merciless haste. Gimli teased at the strands with his fingertips, patient and careful, until he loosened the clumsy knot and it released, letting the bead fall into his cupped hand. He re-wove the braiding properly, making two slender braids from a section of hair, braiding them for the length of his thumb, then uniting them and adding the bead, braiding them down afterword in a single rope, then taking a thong from his own hair to tie it properly in place.

He reached to his own head, conscious of Legolas’s unwavering regard, and unwound the braid marking hopeless devotion, then moved it and duplicated the new braiding in his own red hair, marking their union. He took a deep breath when he had finished, his heart shivering with joy and anticipation-- and even a little fear. _“Maralmi-astû,”_ he said. “I love you.”

Legolas’s hand lifted and slid over Gimli’s beard with reverence, then knotted in it. “Come to me,” he breathed, and tugged Gimli down, attacking his clothes with urgent haste, pushing his tunic back over his shoulders, unknotting the laces of his breeches, hissing with annoyance at his boots when they proved an obstacle. Gimli could only laugh and help him, kicking his legs to send boots and breeches flying, then finding himself lying on his back with an armful of warm, wriggling elf who seemed determined to kiss every part of him at once.

He dragged Legolas up to meet his mouth, drowning himself in the sweet heat of an innocent’s kiss-- but Legolas was fast abandoning his inexperience, his clever hands wandering and discovering Gimli, moans of delight rising to his lips with every new sensation and successful venture. The elf carded his fingers through the thick hair on Gimli’s chest and touched the stiffened peaks of his nipples. Then his hands wandered down to curl shyly about Gimli’s cock, giving it a slow stroke, his fingertips dancing over the head, making Gimli’s breath come fast and harsh in his chest. 

They rolled together, thighs tangled, bodies straining against one another. A thrust caught and dragged between them, and Legolas whined with pleasure, letting Gimli roll him to his back and bucking up against him, begging without words for more. 

“Patience, elf,” Gimli rumbled, capturing him for a seeking kiss, content to thrust against them, building sweet heat-- but then he realized Legolas was moving with purpose, opening his thighs wide and urging Gimli lower.

“Not that, not yet, _âzyungel.”_ Gimli nuzzled a tender apology against his mouth. “Readying you for that will take time and care. I did not expect to use my cock on a slender virgin elf when I chose the metal I wear, and I would not hurt you.”

Legolas went still and gazed up at him, acquiescing, but his eyes turned sober, his expression chastened with disappointment, and Gimli felt his whole soul melt with tenderness and remorse. He understood. Legolas needed this; the act meant more to him than simple pleasure. It meant sealing the commitment between them, a joyous merging of souls and bodies. He bent to bite softly at Legolas’s ear, making him shiver anew, his lips opening in a soft, urgent gasp. 

“Here,” Gimli rumbled, embarrassed, and slowly rolled them once more. He turned himself within Legolas’s arms until Legolas’s chest lay along his back. His heart thundered, remembering the wraith’s vision, remembering how long it had taken him to grow used to riding Bellas with Legolas pressed close behind him. “Have me instead.” The elf’s body felt long and slender, too tall against his back. He knew Legolas was very strong, and positioned as Gimli was, he could not do much to resist whatever might be done to him. He shivered, biting his lip, but his cock did not falter, his body aching for what his mind feared.

Legolas’s hand slid along Gimli’s flank, slow and hesitant; he too remembered. _“Meleth_ … are you sure?”

“Hush.” Gimli groped at the table beside the couch, and was grateful to find the small flask that stood there held sweet oil. Truly the Galadhrim were thoughtful hosts.

He gave it to Legolas-- hoping that thanks to the vision, the elf needed no instructions. 

“Gimli _nîn meleth.”_ Legolas moaned softly against his shoulder, kissing him with reverence.

He might be innocent, but he showed no hesitation, accepting the oil and using it as Gimli had hoped. Gimli closed his eyes as Legolas’s gentle fingers tested him, then one breached him slowly. 

He inhaled, shivering, and Legolas stilled, nuzzling against his neck. “All right?”

“Go on.” Gimli could not speak more, but he turned his head to return the small caress with a nuzzle of his own, taking comfort in Legolas’s care. 

Slow, patient strokes gradually encouraged him to relax and let himself be opened, but he found he did not much like lying with his back to Legolas, so he pulled away only to return, pressing the elf down on the bedding.

“Like this,” he said, hoarse, and seated himself over Legolas’s hips. That was better; now he could see his eyes. For a moment Gimli felt strange, as if the world were shifting and tilting around him. For a second memories of Legolas at the edge of Mirkwood, cold and harsh, eclipsed the friend he had come to know, then faded. Gimli did not know that cold and supercilious elf; maybe he had been mostly an illusion, created in uncertainty and self-defense. 

_“Meleth?”_ Legolas gazed up with love in his eyes, worried. “We do not have to. We can use our hands, as we did before.”

“It’s nothing.” Gimli stroked a wisp of hair from Legolas’s face. “A stray thought. Steady yourself,” he guided the elf’s hand. Raising his body, he began the slow process of sinking down to take his lover inside. 

All thought fled, driven away by the strong length filling him and by the dawning wonder on Legolas’s face as he was slowly sheathed inside Gimli. Legolas’s eyes went dark, the pupils stretching so wide they all but swallowed the irises, and he clutched for Gimli’s hands, clinging tightly to them, his mouth falling open to draw breath, gasping as if he could not get enough of it.

“Gimli,” Legolas’s voice broke, and he slicked dry lips with his tongue, then burst into a liquid stream of elvish that made no sense whatsoever, but Gimli could guess. His wild eyes and the spasms of his taut belly gave him away.

Gimli sank down in haste, taking Legolas fully inside, then rose again for a second thrust, wondering how long Legolas would last. Not long, surely.

“Come back,” he gasped, and clutched at Gimli in desperation, failing to understand.

Gimli tightened his body, pushing back down, and the elf bucked up, crying out in no language whatsoever as climax seized him, making him thrash back and forth, yelling so loudly he made the roosting birds take flight in alarm, rustling and calling in panic. 

Gimli laughed softly despite himself; perhaps lovemaking between elves was more sedate, and did not frighten the birds away? He held Legolas, murmuring reassurance to him, until Legolas calmed at last, tremors of lazy aftershock running through his body, his eyes open again, if unfocused. 

“Gimli- _nîn, le melin!”_ He began to speak, then stumbled to a halt and shook his head. “I am sorry, I did not mean to name you mine. But I do love you, heart of me! I thought I would surely die of pleasure, and I must tell you before my heart burst, but then.” His eyes sparkled, and he laughed softly at himself. “Did you know?”

“That you loved me, or that you were about to come?” Gimli leaned in very carefully so as to keep the elf inside his body. “I guessed both.” He reached and took Legolas’s ear between his fingertips, strumming the piercing lightly and watching the pendant gleam in the light as it spun. Legolas gasped, his chin tilting up. 

“Let’s try again,” Gimli said softly, and went about rousing Legolas anew, stroking his nipples and his ear, kissing him until he could feel the elf’s cock inside him beginning to firm once more, and squeezed it with his body, encouraging, until Legolas lay moaning and writhing beneath him, filling him with solid heat, his hips pushing upward with restless impatience. “Slowly this time,” Gimli murmured. “Make it last.”

Legolas nodded, visibly steeling himself to withstand the building onslaught of pleasure, and Gimli chuckled, stroking his lover’s cheek, aware that he found it difficult to abandon himself and sink into the moment. There was the awkwardness of the wraith’s vision, bringing with it Gimli’s self-consciousness and reluctance to surrender and lose himself in pleasure. But also Legolas was so new to this, so innocent and joyous and blithely ignorant of the ways of lovemaking… Gimli wanted to make it perfect for him. It was not Legolas’s fault he did not know how to return that kindness, not yet. 

He lifted himself and pushed down, and Legolas rose to meet him, moaning low in his chest. After a few gentle motions he caught the rhythm and they fit together in exquisite harmony, hands seeking and clasping. Gimli purred approval, moving a little harder-- but then Legolas shifted his hips and the angle changed.

Gimli gasped as his eyes slid shut, a tremor running through his body. Legolas uttered a little pleased sound and moved again, repeating what he had done. All of a sudden their slow smoky rhythm caught fire, Legolas bucking up with new assurance as Gimli drove himself down, desperate to feel the elf moving inside him, fucking him deeply. Abruptly nothing mattered but this, perfect and messy and arduous and desperate, slick sweat beginning to drip along his ribs, Legolas making soft, beautiful cries and himself answering them with helpless abandon. Captivated by the elf’s eyes, by the strength of his body, open and wrung out and desperate with pleasure, Gimli knew himself claimed, owned, at the same time claiming and owning his _âzyungel._ Legolas was right; they belonged together.

“Mine,” he growled, unthinking.

“My own,” Legolas answered him in kind, eyes flashing, clasping Gimli’s hips and pushing up into him-- and Gimli at last understood it was no bad thing to be owned, not if the claiming was returned and shared.

He rode, groaning at the feel of Legolas’s hands as the elf began to explore, tracing his straining thighs and his sweat-slick ribs, stroking his beard, still pushing up sturdily. Then Legolas’s hand wrapped around his shaft and Gimli could no longer think. He existed only to drive himself onto the hard cock that filled him and thrust into the sweat-slippery hand stroking him, driving him relentlessly toward climax.

Legolas smiled, eyes hot and lips parted, relentlessly handling Gimli until he roared his completion, helpless to silence himself, but there were no birds left to startle.

“Did I do better this time, _meleth?”_ Legolas waited until he could breathe again, stroking Gimli’s back tenderly.

“Any more so and I might not have survived.” Gimli nuzzled him, luxuriant and weary. “I love you too, elf.”

Legolas arose and returned with a damp cloth, cleaned them both, then curled around Gimli with a satisfied sigh, pressing as much of their skins together as he could contrive. “By the custom of my kind, we are wed now,” Legolas confided softly, hands tracing warm patterns on his back. “I am yours. Does it please you?”

Gimli reached and stroked his _o’fih,_ its rich weight humbled by the golden radiance of Legolas’s flowing hair. “Very much.”

Art by [Tosquinha](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/) (http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/)

Legolas idly wrapped his hand about his cock and gave it a lazy tug, his eyes roaming hungrily over Gimli’s body. “It seems strange now that when I first saw you, I did not realize your beauty,” he said. 

Gimli laughed, husky. “You were no worse than I. I thought you a haughty, hateful thing, all spite and snobbery, no better than Andrath.”

“I am sorry for my poor first impression.” He paused, purring as he handled himself, surveying Gimli with shining eyes. “I did not know such pleasure as this might be had in all the world.” Legolas nuzzled in for a kiss. 

“And I thought not to find it with an elf.” Gimli nipped at his lower lip playfully. “Even if I had, I would not have known it could go hand in hand with this much love.” He felt himself flush as Legolas gazed into his eyes, a sweet smile curling his lips, his expression soft with fondness.

“What would this world be if all the seeds of hate and fear were thus turned to love?” Legolas wondered aloud.

“The birds would not find much rest at night,” Gimli chuckled, and replaced Legolas’s hand with his own. 

“Nor will we,” Legolas guessed, smiling, and Gimli silenced him with a kiss, tongue seeking out the deep secrets of the elf’s mouth as his hand worked, swallowing Legolas’s joyful cry when he finally came for a third time. 

Then they slept, tangled together in contentment, rousing many times through the night to caress and marvel in one another, until by morning Gimli was purely exhausted, raw and chafed, his lips swollen from kissing. Legolas looked fresh as a flower by comparison, well-rested and immaculate save for the few bruises and scrapes he had from combat, which were swiftly healing.

Gimli stood away from him, making use of the chamber pot, but unable to drag his eyes from the elf. Morning sunlight shone through the canopy of leaves overhead, dappling Legolas in a shifting raiment of golden and green light, the only thing he wore-- and he needed not a stitch more, in Gimli’s opinion, so beautiful was he among the leaves, lying on rumpled blankets with the early sun gilding his skin. 

He stretched, arching, and rolled to his side, giving Gimli the most sultry, seductive look he had ever beheld: a delectable feast of long, smooth limbs and lean muscle.

“Come back to bed, _meleth,”_ Legolas purred, and patted the blankets beside him.

Gimli pretended to scowl. “You will wear the skin from me with your insatiable appetites, elf!” He dipped his hands in the basin and washed his face, sputtering and blowing, then toweled it dry-- a plan was forming in his mind, and when he finished he turned and stalked his elf, deliberate and slow.

Legolas smirked at him, running his hand along his belly, lightly wrapping his palm about his cock and giving it a slow stroke. “Shall I have no choice then but to satisfy myself? Stand where I may look on you, and I will.”

“Stand idle while you make sport of yourself?” Gimli growled low in his throat, and Legolas’s eyes sparkled at him with mischief. “I think not.” He pounced, and they rolled across the low mattress in a tangle of arms and legs and sheets, ending with Legolas firmly pinned, laughing up at Gimli and lifting his hips, wanton and lascivious as though he had been making love for all the long centuries of his life. 

“A kiss for the victor,” Gimli rumbled, and claimed his prize at great length, drinking deeply of pure bliss. “You seem very confident today,” he lipped the words against the elf’s skin. “But I’ll warrant I have more yet to teach you.” He nuzzled his way down, in no hurry to reach his goal-- savoring every inch of skin, lingering at the nipples until Legolas was breathless and pleading.

“Your hand, Gimli, now!” He writhed.

“My hand, eh? I’ll give you something better.” Gimli nuzzled slowly down along the elf’s slim belly, and Legolas raised himself on both elbows to watch, his hair unbound and tousled. 

His eyes grew wide as Gimli kissed his way down, and his breath rose and fell swiftly in his chest. Gimli teased, taking his time, but finally he arrived at his destination and looked up, capturing Legolas’s gaze with his own. He darted his tongue out, licking the clear salt from the tip of Legolas’s shaft, and the elf shivered. “Gimli,” he moaned as if in pain, his whole body trembling. 

Gimli opened his lips and slowly slid down, reveling in Legolas’s cries, forcing his hips to stillness with both broad palms pressed over them. Legolas swiftly descended into wordless cries, his whole body taut and struggling as he tried to contain the sensations Gimli gave him.

Gimli purred, moving slowly-- he wanted this to last, despite Legolas’s needy response. He pulled off, laughing huskily, and reached to the side of the bed, where oil still waited, and spread some on his fingers.

“You said you wanted me inside you,” he murmured. “Shall we start to accustom you to it now?”

Legolas licked his lips and nodded, but Gimli could sense a flicker of uncertainty in him, and he set his left hand on the elf’s belly, caressing gently. He could certainly sympathize, but he knew Legolas’s fear would not last in the face of pleasure, and he smiled, stroking his fingers along soft skin until he found his goal and began to caress him gently, making slow circles that gradually pressed without breaching, at the same time rising and falling on Legolas’s cock until the elf’s head fell back and his moans grew steady and breathless.

He increased the pressure slowly until his fingertip slid inside; Legolas made a low, desperate sound and shifted, pressing Gimli deeper, his hands clutching in the sheets. Gimli worked him with great care, watching with joy as Legolas writhed and moaned and clenched about him, then spent upon his belly in shining stripes that gleamed fit to rival the finest pearl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Maralmi-astû:_ I love you  
>  _Meleth:_ Beloved  
>  _Nîn meleth:_ My beloved  
>  _âzyungel:_ Beloved  
>  _nîn, le melin:_ Mine, my beloved


	70. Chapter 70

They had hardly finished when there was a sound of voices on the stair and Legolas glanced toward the tree trunk, then pulled their blankets over himself and Gimli. Soon an elf appeared, abashed, keeping his eyes averted.

“Your pardon, guests of the lady-- of the lord," he corrected himself in haste. "I do not like to interrupt, but a council is to be held within the hour, hosted by the Lord Celeborn, and your presence has been requested.” 

“Very well, thank you. Please descend, and we will join you shortly.” Legolas lifted himself to answer, but the messenger hesitated.

“Prince Legolas, my lord Celeborn wished to advise you that your father has arrived in Lothlórien and will be in attendance.” 

“I appreciate your lord’s consideration.” Legolas stroked Gimli’s shoulder with one hand. “We will be down when we have dressed.”

Gimli sighed as the messenger finally departed, watching Legolas arise and wash himself, his long naked body lithe. “I might grow used to living in trees if I knew you were waiting for me when I climbed. But I must confess, elf, I would give much for a dwelling with proper doors and locks instead.” He sat up and scratched his chest, then scrambled to his feet, abandoning the tumbled bed with a rueful glance.

“And I would give much if my father had remained in the Greenwood.” Legolas turned and reached for Gimli, holding him close. “He will know, _meleth,_ the moment he sees us. There is no hiding this from him.”

“I have no wish to hide if you do not.”

“My father could make a nazgûl wish to hide.” Legolas gave him a crooked smile, reaching to smooth an untidy strand of his hair. “But no, I am not ashamed of us. Of him, perhaps. He will not react well to this news.”

“You are making a mess of yourself,” Gimli huffed as Legolas attempted to tuck the stray hair into a ruined braid. “Get your comb and sit on the talan before me.”

Legolas did as he bade, tipping his chin back and sighing with pleasure as Gimli began to comb his hair-- unwinding all his braids, then combing the loose mane out from the ends up and re-weaving them. There was to be no fighting today, so Gimli constructed a set of loosely spiraling, tiered braids that let the leftover strands of hair cascade down below their winding path only to be picked up when he began the transit anew. When he finished, he judged his work worthy of any elven craftsman. Let Thranduil see it and gnash his teeth! 

He finished by braiding his _o’fih_ into a reserved section of Legolas’s hair and let it hang before Legolas’s right ear, a mirror to his own.

Legolas fetched back a mirror and eyed himself with admiration. “This lovely work is worthy of a great feasting day,” he whispered, eyes shining.

“When we are within dwarven halls, I will do it properly and set gems in your hair fit to rival the stars you love so much,” Gimli said, gruff. He passed his hand across Legolas’s shoulder, a lingering caress. 

Legolas tipped his head back and took a kiss, then arose. “I will braid you now in turn--” he began, but before he could finish, a horn call rang through the branches. Gimli recognized the signal as an elvish call; when he was in Mirkwood, he had heard it used to summon wandering scouts to return.

Legolas sighed. “That is my father’s call.” He straightened his spine. “I must dress at once.”

He did so quickly, choosing a pale gray robe, sheer, with layers of buttoned undertunic in rich brocade. The effect reminded Gimli of Lord Elrond: formal and rich, greatly dignified. Legolas made quick work of donning the clothes while Gimli repaired his own hair. The horn call sounded again, nearer this time.

“You must come down also,” Legolas pressed. “Here.” He chose a tunic and breeches of thick velvet in Durin blue with golden accents, pressing them into Gimli’s hands. Though his hands were steady, a tremor in his voice betrayed his dismay with his father’s impatience. 

Gimli struggled into the raiment in haste; he would hate for Thranduil to mount the stair while he was yet half-clad. 

“We must appear at ease, as if we respond not to the summons. Rather, we must act as if we are caught going about our business at our own leisure,” Legolas counseled, a whisper at Gimli’s ear. “If there is anything of use I have learned from my father, it is to behave as if my conduct is irreproachable, and to react as if any who dare call it into question are guilty of the worst possible ill-manners.”

They went down together, walking at a stately pace that quite suited Gimli. Legolas extended his hand and Gimli took it, their fingers curving together. He could feel the elf’s pulse beating fast beneath his skin, but Legolas’s smooth, still face gave no hint of agitation.

Thranduil stood below amidst a knot of retainers, his silver mantle flowing upon the green grass like the rivulet from a stream. He wore a crown of delicate young birch branches and rowan berries artfully entwined upon his head, which he inclined to gaze at Legolas and Gimli as they came down. Gimli saw a muscle in Thranduil’s jaw jump, but beyond that he made no motion. His eyes glittered with displeasure.

“My son,” he said, his voice carved of purest clear ice. “I hear great good fortune has befallen you.” His tone suggested quite the opposite, and Gimli stiffened with wrath. He vowed to himself he would never again bend his knee before this being. 

“Indeed it has,” Legolas answered Thranduil, voice firm and strong. His hand never wavered in Gimli’s. “The wedding of true hearts is ever a reason for joy amidst great sorrow.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. “So it would be, had you chosen any but a mortal,” he said-- and Gimli glowered at the frank statement that his union for Legolas was not a cause for joy-- “Yet that is not the matter of which I spoke.”

“Then in both cases your silence is prudent,” Legolas said-- his tones gone as brittle as Thranduil’s. “Come, Gimli. We are requested to attend the Lord Celeborn’s council. Personal matters will wait.”

Gimli swept away with Legolas, passing Thranduil with only a nod as he attempted to imitate his husband’s stately grace. The messenger who had greeted them earlier stepped forth from the trees. “I will take you to the meeting place,” he said, and set forth.

Thranduil fell in alongside Legolas and Gimli, though the messenger seemed to give him no formal summons. The air between them hummed with tension, and the silence seemed to shout all the things Thranduil did not say. He was capable of walking in such a manner that even the thud of his heels upon the stair was eloquent of disapproval-- perhaps because Gimli could hear them at all; elves normally moved in silence.

Gimli decided it was best not to take issue with Thranduil’s rudeness as they entered the heart of Caras Galadhon and began to ascend a great tree. If the king of Mirkwood behaved himself ill, Gandalf would have no qualms in dismissing him from the council.

Many people were there before them-- elves and men and dwarves, among them the wizard and much of the Fellowship. Gimli spied Dáin Ironfoot and Dís and Balin; nearby stood Ecthelion and Thengel. Bilbo stood near by Gandalf and the lord Elrond stood at hand, Lindir at his side, waiting in politeness for all the company to arrive before taking the chairs that awaited. 

Thranduil displayed no such courtesy, sweeping in and immediately taking a seat at the right hand of the head chair-- for a moment Gimli watched, breath abated in his chest, thinking Thranduil meant to claim Lord Celeborn’s high-backed throne-- but even the king of Mirkwood was not so willful as to insult the grieving lord of Lórien in the heart of his own realm. 

Gandalf harumphed and sat down to Celeborn’s left; the others arrayed themselves around the circle. Gimli deliberately sat down between Dís and Elrond, who took the chair next to Thranduil, and Legolas gave him a fond look before moving to take a place between Bilbo and Thengel, who sat ill at ease, gazing up toward the canopy of tree-limbs as if he feared it would fall in upon him.

“We are gathered here in great need to face the threat of Mordor,” Celeborn said; he seemed reluctant to take the place of honor reserved for him. “And yet I feel unequal to this task, for it was ever my wife’s way to take the lead in such things. I yield, therefore, the leadership of this meeting to Gandalf the Grey, who among us is best-suited to assess the danger and choose how we must answer it.” He sat at last, head bowed. 

Thranduil looked as though he had swallowed a draught of bitter wormwood, and Gimli had to stifle a chuckle at his obvious displeasure. It was no laughing matter, but rather it boded ill for the outcome of their meeting. 

“I am grateful to the Lord Celeborn,” Gandalf said heavily. “I, too, miss the counsel of Galadriel. Her loss is a bitter one, and we regret it sorely.” He laid his hand over Celeborn’s. “But we may not tarry. Every hour, every minute, Sauron labors to build an army that will sweep over the west and bury all beneath his yoke of slavery. Already our allies are pressed by the Dark Lord-- Gondor is beset, as Rohan soon will be pressed as sorely as they. The Dwarf-kings here arrayed also fall under Sauron’s threat, should they fail to aid him as he asks. And then there is Saruman to consider-- he is Mordor’s newest lieutenant and its greatest triumph thus far. He, too, will move swiftly to gather forces for war.”

Thranduil stretched, his long legs sliding across the wooden floor with insolent grace. “And what purpose would you set each of us to serve, Mithrandir? For clearly our peoples are to be the weapons in your arsenal-- used against the shadow, then discarded when they are shattered.”

Gandalf shot him a warning look from beneath his heavy brows, but the damage was done; the dwarves in particular shifted their heavy boots, muttering among themselves. Thranduil smiled, well-pleased with what he had wrought.

“It is no dishonor for a weapon to serve in the hand of a great warrior,” Gimli rumbled. “And without such, no battle would ever be won. If you would fragment us from one another when we must unite to face a foe greater than any other, then you, like Saruman, would serve the lord of Mordor, Thranduil of Mirkwood.”

“Gimli is right,” Dís spoke at his elbow, unexpected but welcome. 

“Aye,” Dáin agreed, thumping his false foot on the thin floor so hard the talan shivered. “We have neither the will nor the way to deliver up to Sauron what he has demanded. We will fare far worse alone than banded together. This lily-livered weed eater is not fit to be heard. I grow sick when I look on him!” He cleared his throat and spat at Thranduil’s feet; every elf present winced. 

Gimli looked to Legolas, apologetic, but found his husband wore a tiny smile, barely curving the corner of his mouth. 

He could feel the heat of Thranduil’s glower, and swung his gaze again to meet it. “I will not say such ill of Thranduil, not yet, for he is still our ally. He only speaks what many have thought across the years, each guilty in his measure of hoping the storm will spare his holding and pass, leaving it unscathed. Yet it will not pass over our lands, not forever, though Thranduil of Mirkwood and his kin-- or any elf here-- may leave Middle-Earth and sail to the west, if they will. Sauron will not conquer there.”

“Will you go, then, to the Valar and yield your realm unfought?” Gandalf asked Thranduil, not letting Gimli’s words lie. “Leaving behind your kingdom, will you lead your people into the west?” 

Gimli knew better than to think Gandalf would ask a question to which he did not know the answer; watching Thranduil’s eyes narrow, Gimli thought he knew that, too. 

“I will listen to this council before I decide,” Thranduil drawled, silky, still sitting at his ease. 

“I will not!” Thengel flared. “I choose to lead, not to weigh gemstones in the balance with offal and wait to decide whether the one is worth the other. Rohan will not bow before Sauron.”

“Nor will Gondor,” said Ecthelion hotly, seeming galled that he had not been first. 

Aragorn shot the steward’s son a sharp glance, but did not gainsay him. “Gondor has ever fought the enemy, as will I while I have breath in my body,” he said mildly, sitting as easily as Thranduil. 

“Then we are agreed on our purpose,” Gandalf heaved a sigh of relief, receiving Elrond’s nod to confirm his statement. “To fight the enemy as best we may, striking before he has time to ripen his plans further.”

Gimli found his gaze held by Bilbo, who sat very still by the wizard’s side, his face pale and his eyes too-bright. The halfling was brash, and it was unlike him to sit so long silent when all but Thranduil had offered support of the wizard’s cause. Watching, Gimli thought Bilbo barely listened to the tumult around him-- his eyes were haunted, staring into the leaves as if seeing something else entirely, and his hand rested over the pocket of his waistcoat. Perhaps he brooded on the ruin of Thorin.

The wizard spared the halfling a quick glance and laid his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, still speaking with Dáin. 

Gimli let the talk flow over him, thinking hard. The accord was set; now only the details remained to be hammered out. Yet he was not certain even now that Thranduil did not have the right of it-- perhaps it would be best for the elves to leave Middle-Earth to its troubles and save themselves. If given the choice between having Legolas’s bow at his side in hopeless war and knowing his love was safely across the sea… Gimli knew what he would wish.

After a time Gimli bestirred himself enough to realize Thranduil sat watching him, unsmiling, his jaw set hard. His hand moved to hover near the pommel of his long, single-edged sword, but did not touch it. Gimli realized Thranduil was aware of his scrutiny, and was grandstanding for him; he scowled and did not look away. 

Only when an elf arrived bearing goblets of wine did Thranduil relax his threatening posture, lifting his vessel to his lips and nodding toward Gimli in a gesture of mocking courtesy. 

“And as we march on Isengard, we must have troops set aside to prevent reinforcements being sent from Dol Guldur,” Gandalf said, causing Thranduil to arch one elegant brow. “Lest we find ourselves caught between hammer and anvil and be crushed in our efforts.”

Thranduil set his goblet aside and smiled thinly. “That is where I would come in, and my people, is it not?” He steepled his hands, appearing to contemplate the question. 

“And a thousand elves from Lothlórien, as well,” Celeborn said. “This conflict is larger than borders between peoples.”

“So we are not to fight Sauron alone for your benefit,” Thranduil mused, “while you occupy yourselves with one renegade _ithron_."

“None of us will fight alone,” Gandalf said, clinging to his patience by force, the words clipped out between clenched teeth. “That is the point of an alliance.”

“My people will fight,” Thranduil said, “if my son stands at my side in his proper place as my general.” His small smile never wavered.

Gandalf glanced aside toward Legolas, who frowned and nodded once, short and sharp.

“Very well. Our forces here assembled will march on Saruman at once under the generalship of Lord Elrond, and we will hope to catch our foe unawares,” Gandalf said. “While a garrison of Lórien goes to bolster the elves of Mirkwood, and its king and prince lead their force against Dol Guldur. After that, we shall go to bolster the army of Gondor and together face the great enemy.” He glanced aside to Bilbo again, yet Bilbo still gave him no response, but only sat pensive, his face drawn as if he strove with great troubles in his mind. 

There was some secret there, Gimli perceived, a terrible thought that oppressed the halfling’s mind. Gimli tilted his head, considering. If Lord Elrond was meant to lead their armies against Saruman, then where would Gandalf be? Among his counselors… or elsewhere?

Gimli resolved at once to make it his urgent business to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _meleth_ dear, beloved  
>  _Ithron:_ wizard, one of the Istari

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! We've entered a new phase of the story, and I'm not yet certain how and where the plot will go from here. Updates may be short or few and far between; work and real life always claim their toll.
> 
> Situations I think may be especially triggery such as sex or violence will be warned at the beginning of the relevant chapter(s).
> 
> Special thanks goes out to those who leave comments and kudos. That more than anything helps help keep me motivated! It doesn't matter if I posted an hour ago or a year ago; they're extremely welcome.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Irrealia for her gracious and valuable second-reading and assistance with plot and characterization, especially in the case of Bilbo and Thorin-- which is going to be a much more frequent feature now.
> 
> Advice is appreciated, especially if any continuity problems have slipped past me during the editing process! :-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In the Sauna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6465721) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)
  * [Of Wires and Wanting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564757) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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